Reborn in Shadow
by Jordy Trent
Summary: Alternate AoD continuation fic. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. What if Lara had given in to her darker side and accepted Karel's offer to join him? Chapter 21 now up, and Kurtis is back...
1. Prologue: Before

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REBORN IN SHADOW**

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"In the darkest recess of every human soul slumbers the shadow of evil." 

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_In ages beyond memory, they walked godlike beside timeless rivers in a place where there was no pain and no fear, and where the one unswerving theme of their thoughts was devotion to the Divine Presence. _

_They would have continued forever in this state of innocence and ecstasy combined, but for the merest hint of discontent that began to fester in the deepest recesses of the heart of one of them; the eldest, and foremost. _

_Like a seed in winter, the discontent lay dormant long, but gradually grew, taking root also in the thoughts of some of his fellows. For the first time they knew ambition, knew what it meant to hunger for more than that which had been allotted to them. Their dissatisfaction swelling to the point where it would no longer be contained, finally their adoration of the Creator soured and turned to a jealous resentment. They decided to try to usurp His position, and even in the instant the decision was made, they were eternally condemned. _

_Their fall was swift, like lightning, as has been said elsewhere. Cast out from heaven to wander the lower regions, in their despair they sought comfort, just as mortal men did, in the arms of mortal women. And from these unnatural unions were born the first of an accursed race; the Nephilim._

_The offspring inherited the dark aspirations of their fathers as well as their unending lives, and soon they sought to dominate the mortals with whom they shared the earth, their mothers' race. And so humankind took up arms against them, in a war that lasted for centuries. The Nephilim had only ever been few in number, and in the face of such fierce persecution, they dwindled until mortals thought them vanquished altogether. But some lived on in secret, fleeing to isolated enclaves, in remote lands. Eventually, weakened and afraid, they withdrew from the world entirely, retreating into a long slumber beneath the windswept sands of Anatolia._

_As they slept, their renown faded from the minds of men, and in later days they came to be regarded only as creatures of myth and legend. But this served their purpose exactly, for humankind could not stand against that which it did not believe existed. _

_It would take many hundreds of years before they would again be strong enough to rise and rule, but the Nephilim are nothing if not patient. While the world changed above them, they dreamed on in their ancient halls._

_All except one..._

"You can trust me, Lara Croft."

The words resonated in her head, and she stared deeply into the unnaturally black eyes of the man...the creature...in front of her. The enemy, or so she had thought.

She didn't doubt that he had indeed killed Von Croy, her sometime mentor and friend. And she had seen him kill Eckhardt with her own eyes, the life extended by unholy means throughout the centuries snuffed out in a second. Not that Lara herself wouldn't have done the same, had Karel not intervened. Eckhardt had deserved what he got.

She couldn't forget Von Croy quite so easily, despite their latter estrangement. The oddly marked hand Karel held out to her had jolted her fragmented memory, proving his role in the old man's death.

At one time, she would have thought only of retribution and of preventing Karel from carrying out his plans. Lara was under no illusions; she realised that the new world order Karel had in mind was unlikely to be "benign". Yet Lara herself was no longer the woman she had once been. Her premature entombment in the Great Pyramid-and its equally disturbing aftermath-had seen to that. She had always considered dicing with death to be something of a thrilling game, but this time the rules had changed without warning and she had very nearly lost.

The months she had been away felt like a lifetime, and on her return she deliberately disassociated herself from everything she had known before Egypt. Her friends, home, even her tomb raiding, felt as if they had no meaning for her anymore. Now she stood on the verge of an entirely new existence.

The question facing her now, the question burning in Joachim Karel's eyes, was: _Are you strong enough to take the final step?_

Lara met the Nephili's unwavering gaze once more, and with no further hesitation, holstered her guns and placed her hand in his.

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**Hi everyone! This is my very first fic to be posted here...I currently have several Tomb Raider fics in progress, and this is actually the most recent one, but I think it'll be the first to be finished because I'm working on it very hard! This story is a continuation of Angel of Darkness, and there have been many of these already, but I wanted to do something quite different. It may seem as if Lara's actions are out of character, but I'm setting out to explore more fully the dark side that she shows in AoD. Therefore, this is best viewed as an AU fic in which she makes some very different choices and gives into that darkness almost completely (hence the title) Having said that, it won't be quite as straightforward as "Evil Lara". There will be plenty of ambiguity, and I don't want to deviate totally from the Lara we know and love, so I'll try to keep her in character as much as the storyline allows! If you read this, pleeease leave a review-it would mean a lot to me -)**

**Disclaimer-I don't own Lara, Kurtis, Karel or Tomb Raider, I'm just having profit-free fun with them. They're all copyright of Eidos Interactive, who ought to be hung, drawn and quartered for ditching Core Design and the AoD storyline. **


	2. Acquiescence

If Karel was surprised by her acquiescence, he didn't show it. He studied her for a moment, closing his long fingers around hers.

"Come," he said softly.

Half an hour later, their hands were still joined as Karel led her through the long murky corridors of the Strahov, glancing back occasionally to check on her. Lara, following him on automatic pilot, was all but oblivious to her surroundings. She was vaguely aware of the inhuman coolness of Karel's palm against hers, but other than that, her focus was inward. She felt incapable of speech, numb with the enormity of the choice she had just made.

"Not far now," said Karel, and she glanced up at him briefly. It was the first time he'd spoken since they left the Laboratory. The Sleeper had remained where it was, but Karel had vaporised Eckhardt's body in a flash of green fire after taking the Shards and Sanglyph from it. Handling the Sanglyph gingerly, he had attached it to his belt. The Shards he tucked away in his coat. Somewhere along the way he'd reverted to his human form, the Nordic colouring flushing back into his eyes and skin as the strange markings receded.

Lara wondered distantly where they were going. She had taken what she wryly thought of as "the scenic route" on her way here, a pleasant little jaunt past laser fences, homicidal plants and bubbling lava pools. Wherever Karel was taking her, she was glad it didn't involve retracing her steps. Eyes on the floor, Lara frowned very slightly as a stray thought tugged at her consciousness; she had forgotten something, something important.

The grey walls slid past her unnoticed.

After a few more minutes, the corridor's twists and turns finally came to an end, opening out slightly into a small storage bay. It was almost identical to the place where she'd shut off the power to the security systems earlier; metal stairs up to a windowed control room, which in turn led into a kind of recreational area with tables, a drinks machine and a television mounted high on the wall. There were several Agency soldiers patrolling the area, dressed in the now-familiar tight blue combat suits with backpacks, but minus the masks and goggles. They came to attention as soon as they saw Karel, but they also stared at Lara in mingled hostility and astonishment. Letting go of Lara's hand, Karel moved ahead slightly and spoke to them.

"Miss Croft is now my guest. You will treat her with respect and assist her in any way she asks. Do you understand?"

The men nodded their assent. "Good," said Karel. "I also want one of you to find Gunderson and tell him to come here immediately. He should be somewhere in the area above the Vault of Trophies. The rest of you can wait here. I'll have further instructions for you shortly."

One of the men broke off from the group and hurried off along the corridor. The others remained where they were, looking as if they were longing to question Karel about what was happening, but didn't quite dare.

Standing just behind Karel, a dragging exhaustion overtook Lara and she swayed on her feet, feeling light-headed. She did a quick mental tally of the last few days since Von Croy's death: total time, ninety six hours. Amount of sleep: about four hours, on the hard, dirty floor of a derelict metro car. Number of times shot at: too many to count.

Karel turned and came back towards her, and the metal disk hanging at his side caught the light, drawing Lara's eyes. It seemed familiar, in some odd way. She stared at it, disturbed again by the nagging thought that she was supposed to do something. She tried hard to sift through the tangled mess of thoughts swirling behind her eyes, but her mind just wouldn't respond. Her brain seemed to have locked up suddenly, leaving her unable to do anything but stand there dumbly, waiting for Karel to say what was to happen next.

He looked at her a moment, registering her state of near-shock, then gestured to the stairs just ahead of them, standing back to indicate that she should go up first. Lara nodded tiredly and walked up the short flight, lifting each foot with an effort. Her boots felt like lead weights, and she grasped the handrail for support. Karel came up after her, and opened a heavy metal door at the back of the recreation area, holding it for her. Still without speaking, Lara went through, and found herself in a room which looked like a cross between a storeroom and a basic bedroom. The floor was checkered with black and white tiles, on which Lara's rubber-soled shoes squeaked slightly. The walls were brick, roughly painted white, with a thick olive-green stripe running round at about head height. There was a small, runged radiator on the left wall, and opposite it on the right, a shallow ceramic sink. In the left corner was a small metal framed bed, and straight ahead of her a tall greyish-white storage locker. The room's lighting came from a single bulb, positioned a few feet above the sink. Sleeping quarters for the Agency men, apparently.

Lara remembered that Luddick, her reluctant ally, had met his horrible end in a room just like this one, somewhere on the other side of the fortress. She put the thought quickly out of her mind. All she wanted to do now was sink onto the bed and lose herself in sleep for at least ten hours. The accommodation wasn't exactly five star, but right now the small bed looked every bit as inviting as her own four-poster at Croft Manor.

She looked over her shoulder at Karel, still standing in the doorway. "Make yourself comfortable," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes." He closed the door behind him, leaving Lara alone.

Kicking off her boots and bending over to rest her hands on her knees, Lara looked wearily around the room. She was aware that her clothing was soiled with both dried sweat and grime, and she wished there was a shower. She made do instead with stripping off her shorts and tank top and splashing herself with lukewarm water from the sink's single tap. In the storage locker, she found a rack of long sleeved black t-shirts, and helped herself to one. A man's size, it fit very loosely, coming down to her knees, but at least it was clean.

Her holsters and guns she tucked underneath the pillow, out of habit.

She collapsed onto the bed, leaning back on her hands. Her eyes felt horribly dry and gritty, and she closed them against the glare of the naked light bulb. Just then, the door opened again and Karel came back in, carrying a small brown tray. Lara smelt food, and it occurred to her that she hadn't eaten since a brief stop at a transport cafe during the drive from Paris.

When she had finished eating and drunk thirstily from the plastic bottle of water accompanying the rations, she put the tray down on the floor under the bed. Karel, who had simply leaned against the wall with arms folded, watching her with interest, straightened up and headed for the door. "Sleep well," he said, his deep voice soothing to Lara's fatigued mind.

"Where are you going?" asked Lara, aware of an almost plaintive note in her own voice, but too worn out to care. She had no idea what the future held beyond her next waking; and suddenly, it seemed as if Karel himself was the only even vaguely-known quantity in her strange new world.

"I have work to do," he answered. "I need to sort out one or two things with Gunderson, and the workers here need to be informed that I'm now their leader."

"I suppose Eckhardt's death changes everything," said Lara.

"Some things," he replied. "But he and the rest of the Cabal had made all the contribution they could to the Great Work. They had nothing further to offer. I need someone of strength and vision beside me now, not a group of short-sighted squabblers. They weren't worthy of immortality...but I believe you are, Lara Croft."

Brown eyes wide, she looked up at him, a dozen questions springing to her lips despite her exhaustion. He seemed to anticipate this, because he shook his head and put a finger to his lips. "Not now, Lara. You need to rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."

They held each other's gaze for a few heartbeats. Looking into his face properly for the first time without the distraction of enmity, Lara was struck by the penetrating intelligence in his cool, azure eyes. Before he turned to leave, he reached out a hand without actually touching her. "I'll see to it that no-one disturbs you," were his parting words.

_Azure eyes_...Lara blinked and shook her head. That insistent mental whisper was back again. What was it she couldn't remember? Pressing both hands to her temples, she wished it would either come to the fore, or go away entirely. Almost hallucinating with fatigue, she switched off the light, then slid under the bedsheets and lay down.

Sleep took her almost immediately, but it was far from peaceful. Her dreams were a confused medley of shapes, images, voices...and faces from her past. One face in particular detached itself from the rest, becoming prominent, and in her dream-state, Lara found herself looking into the eyes of someone she had never thought to see again. Set in beautiful, dusky features, those eyes were a striking shade of violet-black, ringed with exotic swirls of kohl. Beaded braids swung lightly against the sculpted cheekbones; the Shaman.

"Lara..." she said in her hushed, yet resonant voice. She appeared exactly as Lara had known her during her African sojourn, first during the pain-filled, feverish days of early recovery, when she had seemed like some dark skinned angel, glimpsed in hazy fragments as Lara slid in and out of consciousness. And later, she had been Lara's friend and teacher as they traveled with her tribe along the age-old trade routes of North Africa.

A sudden thought nudged Lara, sharp and coldly clear as an icicle in the misty dreamscape: this woman had died, massacred along with the rest of her people by unknown enemies. Lara had been away from the group when they were attacked and had returned only to find the burning sand red with the blood of her adopted family. If they had lived, Lara suspected she may have spent the rest of her days in the tribe's warm, loving folds.

The Shaman radiated her well-remembered compassion as well as ancient wisdom, but there was something new in her demeanour. "Lara," she said again, and traces of sadness coloured her tone. "You have chosen unwisely."

"My choices are my own," said Lara, sounding cold even to herself.

"There is a great darkness ahead of humanity. The future _needs_ you, now more than ever," replied the Shaman, raising her hand. The bright bracelets at her wrist were a splash of colour against the dark beige of her simple hooded robe.

"Maybe I'm tired of playing the hero," said Lara harshly. "What thanks have I ever had from humanity for all the villainous madmen I've stopped?" Her voice faltered slightly. "This is _my _time, Putai," she finished with an almost imperceptible appeal in her tone, as if she were wordlessly asking for understanding. She saw none in the Shaman's face. The mystic woman merely shook her head in deep sorrow.

"Remember the Amulet," she whispered, her image starting to fade.

Lara felt a twinge of regret as the Shaman dissolved away, but it was overlaid with a kind of unfeeling resolution. She had made her choice, and she had no use for guilt trips from beyond the grave. The dream began to melt away around her, but the Shaman's last words reached her with complete clarity, as though they had been spoken out loud in the small room where Lara lay sleeping.

"You have forgotten someone, Lara."

In the darkness, Lara's eyes snapped open.

"Kurtis..." she said.

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**Well,that's the second chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it! **

**Many, many thanks to everyone who reviewed my first chapter; it meant a lot! **

**/distributes freshly baked sugar muffins to all reviewers/ Thanks for the encouragement!**

**I was really pleased by all your reactions to the start of the story. I'm glad you found it interesting and different, which is what I was aiming for. (I will take time to read the stories you guys write as well, and review them at some point) **

**I might as well confess to being a slow writer, even when I'm not busy with other things-I just can't produce decent work quickly, and this story seems to be growing in scope by itself as I work on it. But, I am working hard (writing every day at the moment) and I already have a detailed plan, with many of the important scenes written in advance. I hope to be able to post a new chapter every ten days or so, but even if it takes a bit longer I promise I won't forget this story and leave it unfinished. **

**A few of you asked about Kurtis, and I had always intended to include him, though he won't play a large role, as this is Lara and Karel's story. You can see the first hints of his presence in this chapter, and he'll be appearing in the flesh very soon. What do you think's happening to him in the meantime:)**

**I'd appreciate feedback on my writing technique and characterisation-what do you think of Karel and dark Lara so far? It's tricky trying to write Miss Croft in "evil" mode without making her unrecognisable-my challenge here is to give her at least a semi-plausible motivation for what she's doing. **

**Chapter 3 is already in progress and will be up as soon as...see you then! **

**Jordy xxx**


	3. The Sanitarium

_Remember the Amulet._

It had been in constant contact with her skin. It should have been warm from her body heat, but instead it lay cold and heavy against her chest on its fine golden chain.

Lara hardly noticed as she ran from the room and down the metal stairs in search of Karel. The first person she encountered was one of the Agency soldiers, who she nearly collided with as she dashed around a corner. Whether he was one of the men who she had seen last night, she couldn't tell, because he was wearing the headpiece which obscured his face. He stepped back hastily, lowering his gun.

"Where's Karel?" Lara demanded without preamble.

He babbled at her in Czech, and she couldn't understand a word he said.

"Karel?" she said again, louder and more impatiently, and he pointed along the corridor. Lara ran on.

She didn't have to go far to find him. He was standing in an alcove a little further on with another man, as tall as himself but thickset and very broad shouldered, with a shaven head. Lara paused, scowling as she recognised Marten Gunderson. The two men were conferring about something, heads close together as they spoke in low voices.

Karel heard her footfalls before Gunderson did. He broke off and looked round as she approached, frowning slightly. Gunderson followed his gaze and returned Lara's scowl with a glare of equal unfriendliness.

She turned to Karel. "Kurtis…" she began. "He was…"

"I know," Karel said as she paused, unsure of what to say next. "I sent Gunderson to look for him last night."

"And?" she said urgently.

"Tell her, Gunderson," ordered Karel. Gunderson looked displeased, his heavy brows lowering above the hawklike nose, but he obeyed anyway.

"He's seriously injured." The man spoke in a heavily accented voice, which Lara thought sounded Dutch. "We found this first, lying in a pool of blood in the room where we left you with Boaz."

Lara clenched her teeth at the reminder of being left to face the hideous mutated creature that had once been a Cabal member itself, but put aside her anger for the moment. As Gunderson reached into the folds of his dark blue jacket, Lara suddenly guessed what it was that he'd found.

She was right. Gunderson drew out Kurtis' discus-like weapon and handed it to her at Karel's nod. She took it, careful of her fingers in case the blades should suddenly emerge as she had seen them do before, but it remained closed and still. There was dried blood on it.

Gunderson continued in matter-of-fact tones. "When I picked it up, it activated and seemed to be trying to draw me towards the exit corridor, so I went that way…and then it was just a matter of following the bloodstains. He managed to get quite a long way, considering the extent of his injuries."

"Keep talking," said Lara tersely. Gunderson's frown deepened, but he went on.

"As I said, his wounds were severe, but he's alive…for the moment. I took him to a holding cell in the Sanitarium."

Both men looked at Lara. Karel in particular was watching her closely, and Lara realised he was gauging her reaction to the news. The dull awareness that, as of last night, Kurtis was her enemy crept over her. Her alliance with Karel had changed everything. But still…

"I want to see him," she said flatly, and Karel just nodded as though he had expected this.

"Leave us, Gunderson," he said, not even glancing at the other man. Gunderson looked for a second as if he were about to argue, then left with a parting glower at Lara, who ignored it.

They watched him walk away, his heavy boots striking the floor with stolid efficiency.

"Follow me." Karel moved off in the opposite direction, and she went with him, matching his long stride. Looking down at the disk clasped in her hand, she started to talk, as much to distract herself from her anxiety about Kurtis as for any other reason.

"What exactly is this thing, anyway? I never got the chance to ask him about it." _And maybe now I never will,_ she thought with a surge of near-panic.

He took it off her, handling it delicately. "A Lux Veritatis weapon," he said with distaste. "It's called a Chirugai…or more accurately, _the _Chirugai, since only one is known to exist. You know Latin, you know what that means."

Lara was slightly taken aback by this. "How do you know I know Latin?"

"Eckhardt believed in knowing his enemies-one of his few real strengths. As soon as he realised you were involved in this whole business, he called up every available bit of information on you and had us all read it."

"Oh. Well…'Chirugai' is something to do with surgery…I expect that means it's supposed to carve people up."

He nodded and held it up in the air as they walked along, so the light glinted off the bronzed surface. "It's made of ferilium, a very rare meteorite alloy. Light, but extremely strong. It appears he left it behind in order to give you an indication of his whereabouts, if you came back for him."

At these words, a pang shot through Lara as she contemplated the fact that she had effectively betrayed Kurtis, abandoning him to his fate while she waltzed off with his arch-enemy. Not that she regretted what she had done, exactly, but she wished Kurtis had never been involved. It would have made everything so much easier.

Karel handed the Chirugai back to her, and they walked on in silence for a while. Lara briefly wondered just how big the Strahov was-she thought she'd seen most of it by now but the part they were in was unfamiliar to her. After a few more minutes, however, they came to an airlock and she realised they were entering the aquatic research area. They passed through another airlock, and Lara noticed with a slight shock that the doors hissed open before Karel without his having pushed the rectangular yellow button. Either the fortress security systems were pre-programmed to recognize Cabal members-some kind of laser scanning apparatus?-or Karel had powers at least equal to those displayed by Kurtis. The notion caused her to ponder the disturbing fact that she knew almost nothing about her new colleague, not who he was, or what he could do. She had no idea if the shape he was wearing now was his true form…assuming, of course, that he even had such a thing.

They had a lot to talk about, but that was for later. They went through a set of double doors, which also seemed to swing open of their own accord, and Lara found herself on a metal walkway in a spherical, stone walled room. Actually, it was less a room than a tall shaft. The ceiling was barely visible in the darkness overhead, while the paved floor looked to be a couple of hundred metres below when she glanced over the railing on her right.

The walkway she and Karel stood on jutted out two thirds of the way into the shaft, partly enclosing a tall, circular steel cage. Aged steel, which nonetheless looked incongruously modern compared to the stone walls encasing it which were decorated with Corinthian style pillars carved in relief. Lara could already hear the sound of a lift making its way up from the bottom of the cage.

"I suppose you haven't given Kurtis any medical treatment?" she asked.

"No," said Karel.

She turned away, staring into the distance as though deep in thought.

The lift arrived and they got in. Lara pressed the lever at the back and they moved downward with agonizing slowness. She chewed her lip, unable to stop herself pacing back and forth the few steps allowed by the close confines. She counted five floors before the lift ground to a halt and then it was through a set of dull green doors into a place as grim and dank as any she had ever seen, and that was saying something.

The actual design of the place wasn't all that sinister; admittedly it looked it looked very like a prison with its glassed-in office and the iron bars, but that wasn't what hit Lara as she stared around her. She had once visited Auschwitz while on holiday in Poland with her parents. Although she had only been fourteen at the time, she remembered vividly the way the place had made her feel. As their party approached, she had noticed the utter silence surrounding the complex, no birds singing. Nor were there any flowers growing in the vicinity, despite the fact that it was the middle of spring; Nature herself seemed to give the place a wide berth.

Inside the long buildings, it was even more unsettling. The place felt contaminated as through the atrocities carried out there had soaked into the very bricks and stones to be preserved for as long as they stood. The same rank mental flavour was present here in the depths of the Strahov.

Karel saw her expression of faint revulsion. "The sights of the Strahov," he commented as he unlocked the gate. "Mr. Trent actually came through here on his way to turn the complex's power back on. He caused quite a stir, I believe."

Lara tilted her head. "How do you know?"

"Oh, security cameras, of course. The entire fortress is riddled with them, although they're extremely well hidden. It's also how we knew you were on your way to the Vault of Trophies to find and destroy the third painting…and how we knew to expect Kurtis when he came to find the third Shard. We saw your entire conversation with him."

Lara wasn't thrilled to learn that she'd been spied upon, but she let it pass since she knew she'd have done the same, in order to gain the advantage over a dangerous enemy.

They passed out of the crude reception area and down some steps into a short corridor. The place was only dimly lit, but anyone could tell that it hadn't been well maintained. The rough walls were stained with age and substances Lara didn't want to put a name to. The ugly tangle of pipes that ran along the ceiling was in even worse condition, with some tubes broken and hanging down so that Lara had to duck slightly, and Karel, several inches taller, had to step round them altogether.

Gunderson had referred to this place as the Sanitarium. Lara found it hard to imagine anyone's health improving as the result of a stay here.

After going up three more steps they went through a narrow arched doorway and turned to the right. There was another barred gate just ahead, but Karel stopped before they reached it, in front of one of several heavy, discoloured steel doors. An Agency soldier was on guard outside, and he stepped respectfully aside as they drew close. Karel said a few words to him in fluent Czech, and the man replied in the same language. Karel translated for Lara. "Kurtis has lost a great deal of blood. He's barely stable."

"Let me see him," she said desperately. Karel spoke to the soldier again and he came forward to unbolt the door, swinging it open wide with a protesting groan from the hinges.

At the sight within, Lara's world, stable for a short time, spun one hundred and eighty degrees, her newfound certainties shattering in the time it took for Kurtis to sit up and groan in pain. He was sprawled on a narrow, blood-soaked bed, as pale as death, his midsection punctured by a jagged hole. She started to run forward to him, but Karel stopped her with a hand on the scruff of her neck, and she knew it was useless to fight him. She stood still, about to ask to be allowed to go to Kurtis' aid, but Karel spoke first, and his words chilled her to the bone.

"Leave him. Leave him to die."

She looked up into his face, unable to comprehend what she had just heard. "I can't," she whispered. "How can you ask me to..."

"I'm not asking you to _do_ anything. He is mortal. That's what mortals do, is it not? They die."

"But you could try to save him..." she said distractedly, still focused on Kurtis.

"_Lara_," said Karel, in a tone that commanded her immediate attention. She raised her eyes to his. "Do you think we came down here on a rescue mission? He is the last of an order dedicated to the destruction of my race. I cannot let him live. You must have known that before now."

She had, but it didn't make hearing him say it aloud any easier. She shook herself free of his hand and looked right into his face. "Then why _did_ you bring me down here, to watch him bleed to death? He was my partner, Karel. In a way, I'm responsible for him."

"You were. Not any more. And to answer your question, I thought you deserved to see him once more." He sighed, turning away from her. "I never expected you to be happy about this, but it's inevitable. No-one can be allowed to stand in our way."

"I may have changed my priorities, Karel, but I still value human life." She paused and glanced in at Kurtis again. He looked as he if he was hanging on, at least for now. "And since we were bound to have this conversation at some point, we might as well have it now. I know you've taken life when it's suited you, including Werner's. I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a problem for me."

"Don't take the moral high ground with me. Have you forgotten your own past so easily?"

"What about my past?" she said warily and he almost sneered.

"Mortals...your memories are as conveniently short as your lifespans. Have your celebrated exploits always been free of bloodshed, Lara Croft?"

Lara stopped, thinking of the many lives she'd taken during the course of her adventures.

"But I only killed in self-defense!" she argued. Karel raised a blond eyebrow at her.

"Is _that_ how you justify yourself? It's hardly original, Lara." He crossed his arms, staring imperiously down at her. "I don't doubt that there have been times when you've had to shoot in order to save your own skin. But can you truthfully say that everyone who died at your hands threatened you first? How about all those security men who had the simple misfortune to be guarding an artifact you wanted for yourself?"

Lara remained silent, eyeing him resentfully from under her lashes. As much as she wanted to deny it, his words were uncomfortably accurate. There had been times when, in her dogged pursuit of a goal, she had been as merciless as any of her enemies.

Karel echoed her thoughts. "You're as ruthless as I am," he said forcefully. "Perhaps you even enjoyed it-wielding the ultimate power." When she still didn't respond, he demanded, "Well? Did you?"

"Sometimes," said Lara in a voice that even enhanced Nephilim hearing had difficulty making out.

He walked towards her until they were inches apart. "Then why didn't you do it even more often?" he whispered, his eyes searching hers as if he could read the answer there before she spoke it.

"I always found that a surfeit of killing got in the way of moral integrity," said Lara, somewhat sharply.

"That's strange," mused Karel. "_I_ always found that moral integrity got in the way of a surfeit of killing."

She frowned at this, and he waved a hand as if in dismissal of his own words.

"We Nephilim are not wasteful, nor is killing indiscriminately a favourite pastime of ours. But sometimes, as you of all people should know, it's necessary to achieve our ends."

She stared at the floor. He moved close to her again, and lifted her chin with a gloved hand, making her look into his eyes. "Most of your kind are too weak or too willfully ignorant to acknowledge that. Their pathetic allegiance to what they think of as morality never allows them to see the right and proper order of things. Those of us who are stronger do not deny our true natures."

He backed away, taking hold of her upper arm, and almost dragging her over to the open door. He made her stand in front of it, so she faced Kurtis in his helpless agony. Keeping a firm grip on her arm, he leaned close and spoke into her ear.

"I will not tolerate any division of your loyalties. As I said, I cannot let him live…but I can let you end his life mercifully." As he spoke, he took her hand and held it palm up, placing a small but heavy object into it and closing her fingers around it. Lara looked down, and in her hand lay a Periapt shard.

"Go in," said Karel quietly. "Go and look at him, and make your choice."

She started to go in, but Karel's voice stopped her. "Wait…" he said. "You'd better leave that outside, just in case." He pulled the Chirugai from her belt and handed it to the waiting guard, then nodded at her.

Speechless, she walked into the room, looking down at Kurtis. He had rolled off the bed and was now slumped against the wall, barely conscious. His breathing was harsh enough to drown out the sound of her footsteps, but as she stood over him, his eyes flickered open, dull with unrelenting pain but with recognition stirring in their indigo depths.

Karel spoke from just behind her. "I want him dead, Lara, but I don't need to see him suffer. End his pain..." he urged her. With this he left the room, leaving her with the choice she had hoped she would never have to make.

Her hands shaking, Lara crouched down beside Kurtis and raised the Shard.

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**Apologies for taking so long to update; I just didn't feel inspired to write for a while and I can't force these things. Anyway I hope you liked it! I would love feedback on any and all aspects of this, the more detailed the better...it really makes my day when I see an email from in my inbox telling me I've got a new review!**

**To all those who reviewed chapter 2: have another sugar muffin, but don't forget to brush your teeth afterwards :-)**

**Shauniwritesit: Thanks for the compliment:D I haven't read the Lost Cult yet, but I will at some point. **

**Andrea Christoph: Thanks for the punctuation poke :) /slaps commas to make them get into place/ Glad you liked "evil Lara" and the Shaman. Is Lara supposed to be attracted to Karel/looks innocent/**

**Horsecrazy: Yay! I'm grateful that you left me such an in depth review, I hope the rest of the story doesn't disappoint. **

**silvermoon03: It was incredibly kind of you to leave two reviews, and both really encouraging. Your second one arrived just as I was seriously getting into writing this chapter and it motivated me to keep going even when I ran into difficulties. I'm glad I don't have to make you wait any longer! There'll be plenty more on the relationship between Lara and Karel, it's really interesting to write about and who knows where it might end up? **

**To everyone else: Thanks loads, keep reading and reviewing! Now I've got more time I will make a point of doing the same for other people's stories. **

**I was worried that people would automatically hate the idea of a post-AoD fic which didn't focus on Lara and Kurtis so I'm thrilled that it seems to be going down well with good feedback so far. **

**I have a very detailed outline for chapter 4; it won't be as long as this one but I know exactly what I want to write and have already started it so it won't be long in coming...I reckon about a week. As for the rest-I never write stories in order and in fact I have a total of 12 000 words written so far on this fic (including what I've already posted) but most of it is from the later chapters. **

**see you in chapter 4! **

**Jordy xxx**


	4. Pursuit

She looked into Kurtis' face for what would be the last time, recalling their highly charged encounter in the Louvre. They had stared wordlessly at each other for several long seconds in mutual fascination, his arresting blue eyes boring into hers. Soon those eyes would glaze over in the final dullness of death, because of her.

She was still thinking this when Kurtis' hand shot out and grabbed her ankle. He pulled with a surprising surge of strength, and Lara found herself not only flat on her back, but dazed, her head having struck the metal edge of the bedframe as she fell. She was therefore in no position to resist when Kurtis seized her from behind and yanked her upwards, using her as a human shield. Looking upwards through the haze of pain and disorientation, Lara saw what he was protecting himself from-the Agency man was blocking the doorway, his gun pointed straight at Kurtis' head. Karel stood a little way behind him, looking murderous. Pressed against Kurtis, she felt him shake his head in warning as his fingers moved upwards to grip her throat, and the soldier slowly lowered his weapon in response to Karel's command.

What happened next took place so quickly it was mostly a blur. Still holding Lara round the neck with one hand, Kurtis stretched the other out towards the guard, and the man collapsed instantly, his gun clattering to the floor. As he fell, Lara heard Kurtis mutter something in Latin.

"_Ex hostium vi mea vis maior…" _

A glowing, diffuse ball of white light emerged from the dying soldier's mouth and flew towards Kurtis. Lara felt him buck with the impact, but before either she or Karel could take advantage of this he'd sprung to his feet, shoving Lara against the wall. She hit it hard enough to knock all the breath out of her. Winded now as well as dazed, she could only sit there clutching her head and groaning for breath as Kurtis raced out of the room. Turning to the left as he emerged, he faced Karel again so that the open cell door was between them. Grinning, he lifted his hand toward it.

Karel's eyes went to the door, then back to Kurtis, and a look of alarm flickered across his face. Raising his own hand, he started towards Kurtis, but it was too late.

The door tore free from its massive hinges and hit Karel with tremendous force, hurling him backwards thirty feet down the corridor and through a set of double doors. Kurtis didn't stop to gloat. Bending down to tear his Chirugai from the guard's body, he gave Lara a single disgusted look and then ran.

He was still bleeding badly, but adding the guard's life energy to his psychic reservoir had given him a strong boost, the mental equivalent of about four large black coffees. It should be enough to allow him to get away and out of this place so he could hole up somewhere and heal. He'd return another day to take care of Karel…and Lara.

When he'd first seen her standing over him with the Shard in her hand, he'd thought he was having another nightmare. He couldn't believe that she'd actually joined with their enemies, not the woman who just hours ago had been so full of resolution as they discussed how to stop Eckhardt from bringing his unholy plans to fruition. Was it possible that she was somehow being controlled against her will? He didn't think even the Cabal had the power to do that.

Experienced in the methods of survival, Kurtis knew he couldn't think about her now, couldn't allow her to distract him. He sealed off his emotions, as he had done so many times before, and concentrated instead on not dying.

x x x

Back in the Sanitarium corridor, Joachim Karel lifted the six-inch thick door off himself with an effort. It hadn't damaged him permanently, of course, but even when you were a Nephili you couldn't get hit with a ton of galvanised steel and not feel it.

He pushed the door aside, climbing unsteadily to his feet. The effects only lasted a few moments, and after a few deep breaths he was fine. His first thought, to his own slight surprise, was for Lara. Running back down the corridor, he stepped over the dead body of the guard, sprawled in the open doorway. He barely looked at the man, but it didn't escape his notice that the Chirugai was missing.

Lara was still leaning against the dingy cell wall, breathing heavily, with one hand to her forehead. Crouching down beside her, Karel tugged her hand gently away from her face, checking that she wasn't seriously injured. She looked pale but other than that there was no sign of damage.

"I'm all right," she whispered, finally getting her breath back. "Just dizzy…"

Karel nodded and pulled her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. "Stay here until you feel better," he said quickly. "I'll send someone for you."

Leaving the cell, he followed the corridor back out of the Sanitarium. As he went past the office, he flicked his fingers and inside the glass booth a button depressed, a button that would alert every part of the Strahov to the presence of an intruder. Security forces would be mobilised for action within seconds. That should at least slow Trent down.

Standing at the bottom of the lift shaft, Karel cocked his head, his hypersensitive hearing picking up not only the sound of the climbing lift, but also the ragged breathing of its occupant. As the lift reached floor one at ground level, metallic scraping noises suggested that Trent was sabotaging it in order to delay pursuit from below. What he didn't know was that Karel didn't need a lift to ascend.

Spreading his arms wide, Karel floated easily up to the top of the shaft, borne on a swirling cloud of green mist. Landing neatly on the walkway, he turned in the direction he knew Kurtis had just gone, and smiled with a coldly lethal intention.

x x x

Kurtis leapt over the prostrate form of the guard and ran on. He left at least five of them sprawled in various positions on the floor or slumped against the walls, some groaning, some permanently silenced.

He kept going upwards, avoiding the guards wherever possible. His bleeding had slowed to a trickle-probably, he suspected, because there wasn't enough blood left inside him to gush. He didn't know where he was running to, only that he had to keep going. Staying still would be fatal.

A corner loomed up ahead of him, and he approached it with caution, his Chirugai at the ready. He wished he had his beloved Boran X with him too, but that had been confiscated and he resigned himself to the fact that it was gone for good.

A guard slid out from behind the wall and started firing, but Kurtis, expecting this, had already dived forward, rolling under the stream of bullets and seizing the man's weapon as he came back up. For a few seconds they wrestled, each with both hands clamped firmly around the barrel. Gaining the upper hand, Kurtis slowly forced the gun around until it was pointing right back at its owner. Ripping off the man's hood, he spoke in a low, menacing tone.

"How do I get out of here? What's the quickest way?"

The man spoke in a French accent. "Zat way," he gasped, pointing to a corridor opposite them.

Kurtis nodded and jammed the gun a bit harder against the soldier's windpipe. He only wanted one more piece of information.

"_Where's Eckhardt_?"

"Dead."

Kurtis was stunned. "When? How?"

"Last night. I don't know exactly what 'appened. He fought with zee Croft woman, and now Master Karel is in charge here."

Kurtis didn't know what to think. Had Lara killed Eckhardt, or had she and Karel together teamed up to destroy him? Knowing what had happened wouldn't make much difference to his current situation, but he felt he deserved to know why his partner had turned on him as she had.

Reversing the gun, he struck the soldier on the side of the head with it, hard enough to knock him out but not to kill him. He considered taking the weapon with him, but it was big and unwieldy and would only slow him down. Following the corridor the man had indicated, he found himself at the bottom of a stairwell. Shrugging mentally, he raced up it. He didn't run into any more enemies on his way up, and after going up about a dozen flights he came face to face with a door that looked like a fire escape, judging by the signs that adorned it.

His brow wrinkled in concentration, Kurtis thrust out his hand again and the door exploded out onto a vast open rooftop, skidding along in the snow for five metres or so before coming to a halt. Kurtis followed. Ignoring the bitter cold he ran forward, looking around him desperately. There had to be a way down off here, maybe a ladder or a ledge he could drop to.

Gazing around him, he was momentarily captivated by the beauty of night-time Prague. The snow-capped city spread before him as far as he could see, its lights glowing and twinkling against the blackness. But as he paused, he sensed something behind him, and spinning round, saw a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway he'd just come through. For a second he wondered how the hell Karel had survived the dooring he'd just received. He must have been granted immortality, like Eckhardt, but Kurtis couldn't afford to ponder that now. He sprinted forward again, skidding to a halt only when he reached the roof's low perimeter wall. Hands on the edge, he leaned out and looked down…and down…and down.

The drop beneath him was both dizzying and sheer. In his flight he'd climbed all the way to the top of the Strahov and the street was several hundred feet below. There was no chance he could survive such a fall, especially in his already weakened condition. But as Karel was closing in, he had to do something. He vaulted up onto the wall, his eyes scanning for a way to climb down safely.

"Nowhere left to run, Trent…" called Karel in a mocking voice as he crossed the roof with long strides.

Kurtis turned and stood at bay on the wall, his balance precarious, the strength drawn from the hapless Agency soldier all but spent. He had just enough energy left to draw his Chirugai, throwing it straight up in front of him. His telekinetic control kicked in as it came down again, and with a final surge of mental potency he sent it slicing through the chill air, straight at Karel's throat.

Karel raised his hand, palm outwards, and the Chirugai spun to a halt in mid-air, inches from his face.

Kurtis' mouth dropped open and he stared at Karel in utter shock. "How…how did you…?" he managed.

Karel smiled unpleasantly, the Chirugai still revolving before him. "There's so much you don't know," he said, and as Kurtis watched in horror he _changed_, his eyes darkening as his hair lightened, the skin becoming ashen and covered with strange patterns which looked as though they had been carved into his flesh.

Kurtis struggled with the acceptance of what he saw before him. This, then, was his ultimate enemy. As much as he had craved Eckhardt's death, the man…the _thing_ standing in front of him was the reason the Lux Veritatis had been formed. Destroying it wasn't just his responsibility, it was his birthright.

"You're a Nephili," he said harshly, and Karel applauded ironically, the muffled slap of his leather-gloved hands echoing around the rooftop. He let the Chirugai drop into the snow at his feet, and Kurtis hadn't the strength to lift it again. Knowing this, Karel laughed at him, and Kurtis fought to control his rage.

"The last time my people fought yours we kicked your asses," he said scornfully.

"Is that what they told you?" said Karel silkily.

Kurtis hesitated, but pushed ahead. "Shouldn't you be sleeping it off somewhere in Turkey?"

Karel said simply, "Yes, I should." They looked at each other in silence for a few moments, Kurtis' expression at first expectant, then tinged with consternation.

"What?" said Karel with sarcastic puzzlement. "Oh, _I_ see. You thought I was going to stand here in the snow and tell you all about how I got out, and then reveal my Evil Plans in response to your childish taunt?"

Kurtis cursed under his breath. He'd thought he might be able to buy some time, maybe even find out exactly what the Nephili was up to, but the ploy hadn't worked.

"No, no, no," continued Karel. "Full marks for effort, but I'm not the clichéd villain in some half-baked action film. I have other business with you, Kurtis Trent."

"I hope you're not going to ask _me_ to join you as well, because I'd rather burn in hell," spat Kurtis.

"I wouldn't accept your help if you came crawling on hands and knees and begged for the privilege of serving me, you little runt," said Karel witheringly. "You're beneath me…and beneath _her_, as well." He half-turned to glance behind him; Kurtis looked in the same direction. Lara now stood in the doorway, apparently indecisive, a Periapt Shard still in one hand and a pistol in the other, drawn but not aimed.

"Oh, and as for burning in hell…" Karel smiled viciously. His entire body began to glow, wreathed in green vapour. "Over hundreds of years I used Eckhardt and the Cabal to hunt down your kind and destroy them, one by one. Now you're the last." He held out a hand towards Kurtis, fingers splayed as the seething fire concentrated there. "I hate loose ends, don't you?"

"You're the one that should die, half-breed!" snarled Kurtis.

Karel raised his eyebrows. "Now now, Trent," he said reprovingly. "Nobody likes a racial purist."

Kurtis tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming next, but he'd never felt anything quite so painful. The energy blast hit him square in the stomach, cruelly targeting his injury. Green flames sizzled around the edges, burning through both layers of his clothing and cauterizing the abused flesh underneath. He doubled over in agony, clutching at the bleeding hole as the searing sensation worked its way inwards; it was like having a white-hot poker thrust right into the centre of the wound.

He screamed out in pain, losing his balance and tumbling backwards off the slippery, icy wall. With a desperate grab, he managed to catch himself with one hand. He hung over the drop, his legs scrabbling for purchase. There was none, but somehow he managed to hook his other hand onto the wall and heave himself partially upwards, his charred and torn abdomen scraping agonisingly against the rough stone.

He looked up and into the Nephili's pitiless black eyes.

He was dimly aware that Lara was running towards them from the stairwell. He doubted that she was coming to save him. Well-worn phrases about going down fighting whispered in the small part of his brain that wasn't busy processing the awful pain, but he didn't think he could stand to die at her hands, not after what they'd been through together. Especially not with Karel looking on and gloating.

He relaxed his grip and let himself fall. The vast chasm of air sucked at him eagerly, gravity's deadly embrace claiming his battered body as he plummeted earthwards.

Lara made it to the edge a few seconds later and looked down, hands gripping the edge of the wall.

There was no sign of Kurtis. The snowy street was completely empty.

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**Hi again readers! Many many thanks for all your lovely reviews of chapter 3 /goes round with basket of sugar muffins/**

**I was really pleased to read all your comments, and I'm happy that the Lara/Karel dialogue went down well with many of you, I put a lot of thought into that. The fact that Lara too has blood on her hands has been on my mind since I played Tomb Raider 3, where for the first time you have to kill people in a way that can't be seen as self-defence. It's something I've discussed with tomb raiding friends as well-special thanks to "Asynca" for suggesting that it would be good to incorporate into a Lara/Karel fic :) **

**I hoped people liked Kurtis' role in this chapter and his interactions with Karel, I had a great time writing about them kicking each other around :p **

**I don't want to give away any spoilers for the rest of the story but I do want to say that people shouldn't expect Kurtis to be a major part of this fic-I think he's cool too but I want to concentrate on Lara and Karel. I do have another fic in progress, called "In Arcadia", which is a more conventional AoD continuation and focuses on Lara and Kurtis. It will appear here when I've finished this one. **

**I've got a lot of work to do on the next few chapters, not to mention a lot of real-life commitments at the moment, so the next update will be a few weeks, probably...but might be sooner if I get lots of reviews /wink/**

**Jordy xx**


	5. Aftermath

The rooftop swarmed with activity. Agency soldiers were everywhere, milling around as they investigated. In the street far below, their colleagues' torch beams flashed back and forth, crisscrossing the darker patches between streetlamps.

Standing at the edge of the roof with his arms folded, Karel watched all this in silence. It pleased him to think that this dedicated activity was taking place at his command. For over a decade he had served as Eckhardt's right hand man, taking orders from the brilliant but deranged Alchemist while subtly manipulating the Cabal's course from behind the scenes. Now he was openly in control, and he liked it. It was, after all, his race's destiny to rule.

He turned to Gunderson as the heavyset Dutchman came up beside him.

"Anything, Gunderson?"

"Nothing. We searched the area for a mile in every direction. There's no sign of him, not his motorbike, not even a bloodstain."

"Not even a bloodstain," Karel repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing. To his left, Lara lifted her head from her hands.

"Should we search further afield?" said Gunderson.

"No, that won't be necessary. And by the way, Gunderson," Karel added, "I think it's time you started calling me Master Karel, don't you?"

He waited for a response. Gunderson stared woodenly ahead of him, then finally, grudgingly, said, "Meister Karel."

Karel acknowledged this with a nod. "Very well. You can go, but keep security on high alert."

"Of course," Gunderson barked, and departed, taking his men with him. Karel's cool gaze followed him until he was out of sight.

"He's not too happy about the change of command, is he?" remarked Lara tiredly.

"He may have started off working with us as a mercenary, but over time he became very loyal to Eckhardt personally. He wasn't pleased to hear about his death when I told him last night-I didn't say exactly how it had happened but he's not a fool, he can probably work most of it out for himself. He doesn't trust you, that's for certain, and he doesn't think I should either."

Lara frowned. "Why, what did he say?"

Karel looked at her levelly. "That I shouldn't let you leave the fortress alive."

Lara digested this in silence, the corners of her mouth turning downwards.

"You needn't worry," said Karel. "You're my ally now. No harm will come to you. In the meantime, we'll just need to keep an eye on Gunderson. He does his job very well, I'll say that. I recruited him myself. No-one knows military strategy and combat tactics better than he does, and the men respect him."

"Will he continue to obey you?"

"I believe so. If he doesn't like the way things are going, he's free to leave…but then he'd miss out on that immortality he was promised."

"Promised by Eckhardt, I assume. Do you intend to grant it to him?" asked Lara skeptically.

He didn't reply straight away. She watched his face, unable to read anything in the blue eyes; he had changed back to looking human again before any of the soldiers had come up onto the roof.

"I've only ever met one mortal who I considered deserving of a gift like that," he said. Their eyes met, and he smiled very faintly, his intense expression lightening for a moment. "As for Gunderson…we'll have to see."

It had started to snow again, the soft flakes falling around Lara as she sat on the wall. She leaned forward to pick up the Chirugai, then stood, turning to face the roof edge. Icy air currents spiraled upwards from the great space below her to nip at her face.

"And Kurtis?" she said. She turned the Chirugai over in her hands. It remained still and dark. "Something tells me we haven't seen the last of him," she said softly.

Karel stared meditatively out over the rooftops of Prague.

"I daresay you're right," he said at length. "I always thought of the Lux Veritatis as being like those small black flies that sometimes plague you when you go outside in the summer. They have a persistence out of all proportion to their size and importance."

Lara recalled Kurtis' tenacity only too well. He'd been so determined to deal with Boaz that he had thrown her his precious Shards and sent her to safety before turning back to face the monster alone. Thinking of this prompted a hot, prickling sensation behind her eyes, and overwhelmed with conflicting feelings, she turned away. Karel was the very last person to whom she wanted to show weakness.

She expected his contempt, or at the very least his dismissiveness, for her human sentiment. Perhaps also his anger for her failure to dispose of Kurtis-after all she had hesitated as she knelt over him, reluctant to end his life, and this had given him the chance to escape.

What she didn't expect was for Karel to move closer and lay a hand on her shoulder. On one level Lara registered surprise, but she was overcome by emotion. Briefly, she gave into it, dropping her head, her chest heaving. Karel said nothing, his hand leaving her shoulder for a second to stroke the back of her head. When she raised her head again he stepped back, standing tall and aloof with his hands in his pockets. She turned round and they looked at each other solemnly while the snow fell faster and heavier around them. A sudden gust of wind straight across the rooftop kicked the flakes upwards into a flaring spiral behind Karel, so that they swirled around his back and shoulders, looking for a moment like a pair of great, white wings.

"This has been hard on you," he said, his voice altered slightly with shades of sympathy. "But things will be straightforward from now on. Relatively speaking, anyway."

She quirked an eyebrow, and they both turned away from the roof's edge, heading back inside into the relative warmth.

"So what now?" she asked as they went slowly down the stairs. He considered.

"Are you tired?" he said.

"Yes," she replied. She hadn't given it any thought, but with the adrenaline draining from her system she realised that she was back to the same state of exhaustion she'd been in earlier. She couldn't have had more than a couple of hours sleep before her disconcerting dream rendezvous with the Shaman.

She looked at Karel curiously. "What about you? Do you even need to sleep?"

He turned his head to glance back at her. "Not as often as you do, nor for as long…but yes."

A soldier patrolling near the foot of the stairs stood to attention as they approached. Karel called him over and after a short conversation in Czech, the man saluted and left.

"I won't subject you to the Strahov's luxury accommodation for another night," said Karel. "I always stay in the Four Seasons Hotel when I'm in here in Prague. I've called for a car to take us there."

She nodded. "Your main office is in Paris, isn't it," she said.

"You got that information from that meddling reporter, no doubt," Karel said calmly.

She pulled Luddick's dossier from her backpack and held it up in reply. The information it contained was so scanty she had initially balked at having to pay for the thing at all, but at the time it was the only source she had on the dangerous and secretive Cabal.

Karel took it from her, flicking through it as they walked along. "So, according to Mr. Luddick, I'm a 'corporate legal mastermind based in Paris, overseeing the Cabal's investments and recruitment whilst protecting their interests worldwide.' Hmm. Accurate as far as it goes, but it's not much to show for two years of work, is it?

"Is _that_ how long he'd been…"

"Spying on us, yes. We were aware he was interested in our doings for some time, but he never found out anything significant until just recently."

"So Eckhardt decided to eliminate him."

"Exactly."

Karel handed the folder back to her, and she stuffed it back into her bag. Karel was right about his entry in the dossier. It was very brief indeed, comprising those few lines of text along with a grainy photograph of him at some legal function. But at least it had allowed her to recognise him when he ambushed her in Eckhardt's laboratory.

"Luddick didn't even know he was investigating the Cabal," said Lara thoughtfully. "He told me that the Mafia ran things here in Prague."

Karel stopped walking and looked down at her, face impassive. "You know Lara, we've had this conversation before," he said softly.

She glared at him, instantly catching his meaning. "So, it really _was_ you in Bouchard's form…at Vasiley's place. You deliberately fed me information about the Cabal and the paintings, just to keep me on the right track so I would find them for you."

"And so you would eventually come to me here at the fortress. Understand, Lara, that I wanted you on my side very much."

"And obviously you didn't particularly care how you got me there. Are there any other shape-shifting deceptions I should know about?"

He frowned at her tone, his face darkening in ominous disapproval, but he answered anyway.

"We all do what we have to. I was at the Louvre, in the form of one of Gunderson's men. I took the Obscura painting from Trent as he tried to leave."

Lara opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

"Yes, I knocked you out. But I also made sure you were safe before I left, which is more than our friend Mr. Trent did. As soon as he regained consciousness, he fled."

_That probably shouldn't surprise me, _thought Lara. Karel continued.

"I took on the form of Bouchard's doorman as well, to keep an eye on things and to make sure you got to Bouchard. I never actually disguised myself as Luddick or Trent, but I did ensure that Luddick got access to certain useful information that he could pass on to you."

"Like Strahov pass codes," realised Lara.

"Yes. I was watching you all along, in one way or another. I was sure that you had what it took to find the paintings and the shards."

"I'm not sure whether to feel flattered or used," said Lara dryly.

Karel started walking again, and she followed. "We went through this earlier. We all do what we must to get what we want. In any case, it's in the past now. You should try to focus on the fact that we're both working towards the same goal."

Lara dipped her head in agreement, but inwardly she still harbored some resentment at having been maneuvered so expertly. It seemed that just about everyone involved in the Von Croy/Obscura business had been dancing to Karel's tune without even knowing it.

Eckhardt had been unsubtle. He was the type of man Lara could imagine actually rubbing his hands together and cackling in fiendish glee; in Karel she sensed someone quieter and more thoughtful, and therefore far more dangerous. She had to admire his cleverness-if there was one thing Lara Croft respected it was intelligence-but at the same time she made a mental note never to forget that she was in the presence of a master manipulator.

They reached a small, plain door. Karel opened it for her, and she stepped out into a cobbled sidestreet, where a sleek silver-grey car was already waiting for them. The chauffeur got out, opening the rear door and then holding out a long coat for Lara. Conscious of her minimal clothing and the cold weather, she took it gratefully before sliding into the car's plush interior.

Lara dozed most of the short journey from Strahov district to the hotel, leaning her head back against the smooth leather seat while Karel stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought. When the car purred to a halt she looked out of the tinted window at the glow of the hotel front and turned to him with a serious expression on her face.

"You realize I can't just walk in there and have everyone know who I am. The authorities are probably still combing the Continent looking for me in connection with the Monstrum murders." It seemed like weeks ago that she had begun her grim journey through the rain-soaked back streets of Paris, determined to prove her innocence.

"They are," replied Karel. "I was just considering that particular problem. I believe I can take care of it for you, but it may take time. For now, I suggest you think of a pseudonym, and avoid drawing attention to yourself."

They got out of the car. It had stopped snowing and the heavy grey clouds were beginning to push back, revealing a patch of brilliantly clear sky. Knowing that the Cabal virtually controlled Prague, and also that Karel was a prominent international lawyer, Lara concluded that he must have his ways of getting her off the hook. She just hoped he'd do it fast.

A uniformed doorman saw them into the hotel, bowing respectfully and murmuring "Good evening, Mr. Karel sir."

"Evening" was pushing it a bit, thought Lara; glancing at a clock in the elegant, wood-paneled reception area, she saw that it was past two a.m.

"A pleasure to have you staying with us again, Mr. Karel," said the young woman behind the marble-topped desk. "Will you be requiring your usual top-floor suite?"

"Yes, and another one for my assistant." He glanced over at Lara.

"Could I take your name please, madam?" said the woman politely, typing rapidly at her keyboard.

"Laura Cruz," said Lara, keeping her head tucked down into the collar of her coat. To her relief the receptionist, busy entering details, hardly looked at her.

The warmth of the hotel was making her drowsy again. She took her room keys and followed the porter up several flights of stairs to her room, with Karel bringing up the rear. They stopped at the door to her room and Karel dismissed the porter.

"Sleep as long as you want," he said. "I'll be busy for a while dealing with the aftermath of the Monstrum business. "

"It's probably best I stay closeted away until you've done that, in any case," replied Lara.

"My suite is just across the corridor. Call me when you wake up, or if you need anything." He paused, then added, "The Great Work awaits us, Lara."

She half-smiled, and they went into their separate rooms. Her suite was enormous, built on a two level design with the bedroom on the second level and a spacious lounge area lower down. She was pleased to see that it was decorated in restful colours, creamy yellows and dove greys, with polished mahogany furniture. As it was a corner room, two walls of the living area were taken up with floor-to-ceiling windows which afforded a spectacular view of the nearby river. She stood for a moment gazing out over the dark blue night-time waters of the Vltava, across the medieval bridge to where Prague Castle stood outlined against the starry sky.

Upending her backpack onto the bed, Lara sorted through her meagre belongings, placing medpacks and ammo in the bedside cabinet alongside the Gideon Bible. The sheets of paper she had accumulated-Louvre maps, symbol tracings-were scrunched up and thrown away. As she rifled through the assortment of oddities, her fingers closed over something small and heavy, and her eyes hardened.

She held it up to the light. Sealed in clear plastic, it was an unusually squat bullet with a pointed end. It was still encrusted with traces of blood and sand.

"Someday," she said grimly. A vow.

Feeling hungry but too tired to eat, Lara had a shower, closing her eyes in bliss as the powerful jets of warm water blasted the cold and grime from her body. She replaited her hair while it was still damp, and wrapped a thick terrycloth bathrobe around herself, luxuriating in the feel of soft, clean fabric against warm, clean skin. Then she padded back into the bedroom, her bare feet sinking deeply into the lush carpet.

Rooting around in the mini-bar, she found a bottle of water and drank half of it before collapsing into the king sized bed and switching off the lamp. She had left the curtains partly open, and the silvery moonlight streaming through the window spilled across the bed, alternating with the shadows on her beautiful face as her eyelids shuttered closed.

Her breathing soon settled into a regular rhythm. In the room opposite, Karel picked up the phone and began the complex task of clearing Lara's name.

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**Yay, chapter 5! I have a feeling I'm going to be finishing every new chapter with an apology for taking too long to update…but I'm just not that fast a writer. Still, as I've said before, I'm committed to this story and it WILL be seen through to completion.**

**Thanks lots to everyone who reviewed chap. 4…appreciate it. Now review this one as well! I'm going to get round to some serious reviewing myself now that I've got this chapter done, there are so many good stories I need to comment on.**

**This chapter is pretty talky and downbeat compared to the last one, I suppose, but I think it was necessary to deal with some of the (many) questions and loose ends left by Angel of Darkness and its complex storyline. I love the AoD plot and I'd like to try to fill in some of the gaps as I tell this story.**

**For those of you wondering about Monsieur Trent…I deliberately left this open and you will find out what happened to him in due course, I promise :)**

**Jordy xx  
**


	6. History

Lara shifted in her sleep, her eyes moving rapidly behind their closed lids.

_Rain. Darkness. Sweat. Blood. Death._

Paris had been stricken with fear, the subtle thrill of terror interlaced with the tang of innocent blood in the air. Citizens went nervously about their business, looking over their shoulders as they walked and staying indoors after nightfall. The shocking ritual killings had cast a shadow over the whole city, in what the press were referring to as "the Monstrum's Dark Renaissance." And into all of this had walked Lara Croft, enmeshed in darkness herself, her dreams haunted by the crushing, pounding roar of collapsing masonry.

Lara had spent the last twelve years of her life plundering the world's tombs, and the greatest of them all had almost become her own. She was keenly aware of the irony, but she found no humour in it at all. She didn't find much humour in anything these days.

Since the return from Egypt she had been aware of a creeping cynicism, a derisive impatience with the world and its safe, mindless rhythms of everyday life. In her desire for solitude, she had ignored repeated phone calls from Father Dunstan and Jean-Yves, and shunned her parent's desperate attempts to get in touch. She had even dismissed faithful, concerned Winston from her employment, giving him a large cheque and driving him to the airport so he could go to stay with his daughter in Belfast.

Left alone, she spent time brooding over her past adventures, thinking of the powerful artifacts she had sought and won in her earlier life. The Scion, the Spear of Destiny, the Xian dagger; the incomparable feeling of holding history itself in her mortal hands. She had been a collector, a fearless adventurer. The few who knew the whole truth about her exploits even thought of her as a hero. What nobody knew was how tempted she'd been to use the awesome power of her prizes for herself, how close she had come on more than one occasion.

It had always been a delicate balance between light and shadow. In the end, all it had taken to tip the scales was the bitter weight of her own anger and disillusionment.

Drifting back into consciousness, Lara stretched and yawned, rolling over in the massive bed. "No more saving the world, Croft," she said out loud. Lately, she'd been wrestling with the growing conviction that the world in its current state probably wasn't worth saving, anyway. You only had to read the news to figure _that_ out.

Her room was already awash with golden sunlight. The luminous green display on the bedside clock said 11:03 a.m., and a quick check on her Timex clip watch told her that she'd slept the rest of the night and through the day, and all of the next night as well. She had vague memories of waking up a few times, only to turn over and go straight back to sleep. Her stomach gurgled crossly, reminding her how long it had been since she had last eaten. She sat up, pulling the room's glossy old-fashioned telephone into her lap, and dialed room service, ordering a full English breakfast.

It arrived, accompanied by a copy of The Times, on a silver platter, making Lara think of Winston with a quick flash of guilt. He'd always insisted on bringing her breakfast in bed when she was at home between expeditions, brushing aside her protestations that she was perfectly capable of coming down and getting it herself.

"Someone who spends as much time in mortal danger as you do deserves to be looked after properly the rest of the time," he'd say, patting her hand in a way she'd have found intolerably patronising coming from anyone else.

Busy eating, she didn't even unfold the newspaper until the plate was almost empty, and when she did her fork hit the fine bone china with a clatter. On the front page was a huge photograph of herself, underneath the headline:

**LARA CROFT TO STAND TRIAL FOR MURDER**

Eyes wide, she spread the paper on the bed and read on.

_Famed archaeologist and adventurer Lara Croft will stand trial for murder within the next week after having been accused of the "Monstrum murders," the name given to a recent spate of brutal killings in the French and Czech capitals.  
The murders, which have claimed seventeen victims over the last four months, are being treated by the authorities as part of a wider series of unsolved killings which have taken place over the last decade in other European cities. These are in turn linked to atrocities going back as far as the late 1940s. The previous outbreak, in which six people were murdered, took place in Copenhagen last September.  
In a statement late last night, Commissioner Mirepoix of Interpol speculated on the possible links between these murders: "Police forces from all over Europe have been working together on this strange and disturbing case. Records dating back to 1945 show striking similarities to clusters of murders committed throughout European capitals. These killings are characterised by the bizarre metallic eruptions on the victim's bodies, as well as the mutilation of the corpses and the daubing of symbols on the surrounding walls and floor. The long period of time over which these murders have taken place, as well as their ritualistic nature, suggest the ongoing work of a cult, which may be carried out by various individuals at different stages."_

_Miss Croft has been the first individual to be clearly linked to any of these crimes after she was seen leaving the apartment of Professor Werner Von Croy, a longtime friend of hers, shortly before his body was discovered by police following reports of gunfire from neighbours. She was also known to have visited Mr. Von Croy's colleague, Margot Carvier, shortly before she too was found murdered. _

_Mr. Von Croy and Miss Carvier had worked together on archaeological projects at the Louvre, where Miss Carvier headed the museum's department of Medieval and Renaissance Studies. They are the first victims to have any significant association; previously, there had been high numbers of casualties among Parisian gangland factions.   
Miss Croft went missing, presumed dead, in December of 2000 following a disastrous field trip to the Egyptian tombs with Mr. Von Croy, where it is thought that a part of the Great Pyramid itself collapsed on top of her, burying her alive. She has been almost a recluse since her return to her Surrey home earlier this year, refusing to confirm or deny rumours about time spent amongst obscure North African tribes.  
The trial will take place in Paris at the Cour d'Assises, and Miss Croft will be represented by renowned international lawyer Joachim Karel. Currently President of the French National Bar Council's International Commission, Mr. Karel is one of the world's most respected legal scholars, and in addition is famed for never having lost a case. He is expected to present proof that the murders were in fact committed by Pieter van Eckhardt, a Prague-based businessman with a reputation for eccentricity, and, in an unusual twist, one of Mr. Karel's own associates and frequent former client.  
Eckhardt's alleged final victims, just hours before his own mysterious disappearance, were his colleagues Dr. Kristina Boaz, Dr. Grant Muller and Mr. Luther Rouzic, all of whom had worked with him since the mid-1970s. Prague police are still hunting for Eckhardt, but as yet report no clues as to his whereabouts._

Lara put the newspaper aside and leaned back against the carved mahogany bedhead, her face grave and thoughtful.

x x x

Minutes later, curtains of warm water were falling about Lara's slender form, forming silvery droplets on her eyelashes and misting the ancient pendant around her neck with a fine spray.

The Amulet was like its wearer; beautiful, finely modeled, but strong, with a suggestion of power simply waiting to be unleashed. In appearance it was uncomplicated, a flawless amber cylinder set in a clasp of beaten gold, which was in turn linked to a fine gold chain. It had belonged to the women of the Shaman's family for countless generations, passed down from mother to daughter.

"You can't give me this," Lara had protested, sitting cross-legged in a tent somewhere among the shifting sands of Africa. "It's an heirloom."

"Please. I want you to wear it," the Shaman had said, smiling serenely as she knelt to fasten it around Lara's neck. "It will give you strength in the days ahead."

"_You_ give me strength," Lara had replied.

"In this world nothing remains the same for long," said Putai, her expression becoming sombre. "Earlier I spoke with the spirits of my ancestors. They told me that great changes are coming."

Lara felt a distant stirring of disquiet. "What kind of changes?"

"They would not say more. Those who have gone before us do not reveal everything to the living."

The Shaman paused, eyes lowered as if collecting her thoughts. The richly decorated tent canopy trembled with the passing of the scorching desert wind, driving the bleached sand before it in the endless reshaping of the dunes.

"It may be that you and I are fated to travel life's path together only for a short while, Lara. But through the Amulet, I will always be with you, just as my mother is always with me, and her mother, and her mother before her…"

She leaned forward and touched her fingertips to the amber pendant. It began to glow immediately with a subtle radiance. Curious, Lara put her own hand up to it. It felt warm, warmer even than her skin in the stifling heat.

"To wear it means responsibility as well as privilege," the Shaman went on in her sweet, strong voice. "It draws power from that part of you which gives unselfishly to others."

Troubled by the memory, Lara stepped out of the shower and dressed quickly. Her fingers brushed the Amulet once more-it was dull and cool. Her dark eyebrows drew downwards in a frown. She took a firm hold of it, and was about to yank it from her neck, snapping the chain. But a strange reluctance caught at her, and instead she tucked it into the neck of her vest top, out of sight.

x x x

"I thought you'd gone into hibernation," were Karel's first words as he let Lara into his room.

"I'm afraid I took you literally when you said 'sleep as long as you want,'" she replied. "_You've_ obviously been busy, though." She waved the paper at him. "What's going on?"

"Come through. Sit." He motioned her through into the lounge area. She glanced around curiously before sitting down. Karel's dark coat and red scarf were thrown over the back of a chair but the bed looked perfectly made, as if it hadn't been slept in at all. The room was similar to her own, but decorated in darker colours, navy blues and sea greens-definitely a businessman's room. A sleek flatscreen computer sat on the desk, opposite a fax machine which was quietly churning out page after printed page.

Karel sat down opposite her, hands clasped. "I _could_ have resolved this entire business illicitly. The Cabal-which now means me-virtually owns Prague, and I have considerable influence in other spheres as well. But I thought it would be better for the case to go to trial, so you can be officially exonerated. Although, I should warn you in advance that it won't be easy. You argued with Von Croy, your DNA and fingerprints are all over his apartment…and Carvier's as well."

"Mmm," said Lara offhandedly. "Probably shouldn't have gone round helping myself to her valuables before I left..."

Eyebrows raised, Karel gave her a dubious look.

"I needed the money," she said quickly.

Karel glanced aside briefly. "As your legal counsel, may I advise you to keep that one quiet?" he said, looking as if he were trying not to smile. "You're in enough trouble as it is, and since Mademoiselle Carvier is hardly in a position to report a theft…"

"All right," she said, shrugging. She looked down at the newspaper again and something at the beginning of the article jumped out at her. "A week seems like a very short time. Don't these things often take months to come to court? And shouldn't I be in prison until it starts? Not that I _want_ to be there, but I wouldn't have thought the court would grant bail in a case like this…"

"Normally they wouldn't, but as I said - influence." Karel sat back in his chair. "A few phone calls, a few strings pulled, and the court has agreed to give the case the highest priority, as well as giving you into my custody from now until the end of the trial."

Lara, no stranger to wealth and privilege herself, couldn't help but be impressed. "So the Prague police won't be gathered on the doorstep if I leave the hotel?"

"The police will do what I tell them," he replied humourlessly. "They know better than to cross me."

"What about Eckhardt?"

"They'll look for him for a while, just for appearances' sake. Then, he'll simply go down in their case files as yet another missing person. A _wanted _missing person, if all goes well-but eventually he'll be forgotten."

"Well, we know for a fact they'll never find him," Lara commented dryly.

"Safe to say," Karel replied gravely.

Lara stood up and wandered restlessly over to the window, watching the glittering play of the midday sun on the river. After a few moments she sensed Karel close behind her.

"You're worried about the trial," he said solicitously, a statement not a question.

"I've never been in court before," murmured Lara, her gaze abstract. "You're certain we can win this?"

"It's a challenge, but I'm good at what I do," he said. "Trust me."

She breathed out slowly and nodded, once.

A dazzling shaft of sunlight lanced through the window, warming Lara's face and lighting on Karel's white-blonde hair like a halo. He watched her a moment longer, then touched her on the shoulder and turned away to collect a small mountain of paper from the fax machine.

"I'll be preparing our case over the next few days. While I do that, I'd like you to do some research into the history of the Nephilim and the Lux Veritatis. I know you gained some knowledge over the last week, but you should be fully informed before we begin the Great Work."

"And where will I be doing this research? The Strahov fortress?"

"Yes. There are extensive archives in the lower levels, formerly presided over by one Luther Rouzic."

"I never met him," she said, recalling from Luddick's dossier a picture of a tall, unnaturally thin man with a scarred face.

"He was in the Strahov fortress along with the rest of the Cabal, but he had the appalling bad luck to open a door and find the Proto-Nephili on the other side. My men are still scraping him off the walls and floor."

Lara tilted her head. "I'm sorry-the Proto…?"

He waved a hand. "One of Boaz' ill-considered experiments. A hideous mixture of baboon and essences extracted from the Sleeper. It should never have been created." He looked directly at her with a hint of amusement. "It escaped when _someone_ shut off the power to the security systems…"

"Ah. What happened to it?"

"Trent killed it-good of him, actually-but not it before it wreaked considerable havoc in the Sanitarium." Karel sighed, then added, "A pity. If there was one Cabal member who could still have been of use to us, it was Rouzic. He was right at the top of his field, and very dedicated; so immersed in his work that he sometimes even forgot to attend Cabal meetings."

"Got left out of things, did he?"

"He used to closet himself away in the basement of the fortress. Sometimes the rest of us wouldn't see anything of him, other than emails, for months on end."

"I see. Well, I'm not so bad at that kind of thing myself-ancient languages, digging through archives and so on. I've had a lot of experience. It shouldn't take me long to catch up," she mentioned.

"I'm sure you'll manage perfectly well. One or two days will be all you'll need."

"And then…we reawaken the Sleeper?"

He paused before answering, his face in shadow.

"Then we reawaken the Sleeper. And then…we kill it."

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**And that's chapter 6. Sorry for the even-longer-then-usual delay!**

**I myself haven't liked this chapter and the last one as much as the first four, they're mostly exposition and talkiness…but I couldn't see any other way of doing it according to the plot I have worked out. There will be more action in chapter 7, though.**

**I originally anticipated this story being about ten chapters. I now think it will be more like 15, because it grows by itself as I write! The plot and characters are going to unfold steadily, so you might have to be a bit patient, but your questions will all be answered eventually (such as the cruelly suspenseful matter of Kurtis' fate :) I'm also a big fan of authentic background detail, so I won't invent details if I can find a real-life or in-game source for them; does Commissioner Mirepoix's name sound familiar to anyone?  
**

**As I write, I'm going to be making small mentions of things that will turn out to be important later on, so pay attention to the little details…**

**Now for my lovely reviewers/distributes a batch of freshly baked sugar muffins/ I'm pleased many of you picked up on and appreciated the Laura Cruz ref. Look out for other little jokes :)  
**

**Acid-Rush: Thanks, and I hope the jobhunting went OK? How are your own fics going?**

**Shauniwritesit: Thanks for reviewing regularly, I intend to return the favour soon!**

**Akkon: I'm so glad you like the Nephilim, they're one of my favourite parts of the AoD storyline, as if you didn't already know :p**

**LostandConfused05: Thanks so much! Karel is such a great character, sadly underused in the game, and it's a lovely compliment when someone says they like my portrayal of him here.**

**Ellethiel: It won't be such a long wait to the next chapter, I myself get fed up with my slow writing at times too :)  
**

**Chirugal: You read and reviewed/keels over in shock/ Thanks for leaving such a long one…I think very highly of your writing so it's really gratifying to have you praise my story as well. I'm happy you think the characterization is good, and hey, give Joachim a break, he's a great villain! Next time I may write a Lara/Bouchard story and then you'll wish you had Karel back, mwahahah.**

**One more thing-Carola Funder, a Danish artist and TR fan, was kind enough to do a drawing based on chap. 3 of this story. I've been a fan of her work for a while since I saw a brilliant drawing she did of Karel once, and I was going to ask her to do a Lara/Karel pic for Reborn in Shadow, but was too shy. However, I then got an email from her out of the blue saying how much she liked the story and when I asked it turned out that she'd already done a drawing!**

**You can see it, along with her other TR art, at the "planetlara" website-go to their homepage, from the menu down the left side, click on Fan Art, then click the artist list + art button, and find Carola's name in the list. The drawing in question is second from the left on the bottom row of her gallery-check out the one on the far right as well. I'd post a direct link, but I can't for some stupid reason.**

**Thanks Carola!**

**-Jordy xxx**


	7. Dreamer

_In bonds of leather and metal, the creature sleeps. Aside from the occasional reflexive twitch, it has not moved for centuries, not even when they tore open its stone resting place and dragged it across half a continent. Once awakened, it would rend mortal flesh like paper, but for now it simply exists; the bodily processes torpid, the mental awareness turned wholly inwards…a state of death, but dreaming._

The machinery whirred, carefully lowering the Sleeper all the way down to the grated floor where Lara and Karel stood. As it finally ground to a halt, Lara got her first close look at the Cubiculum Nephili.

Enveloped in shimmering blue flame, it was tall, slender and savage-looking, with deepset crimson eyes and hands and feet alike ending in long, curved claws. The supine arc of its body pushed its chest outwards, stretching the yellowish skin taut over the hemispherical sweep of the ribcage.

She was so close that she could smell the creature. Its odour was like the inside of a tomb, speaking to her of long dusty years of silence, sealed away beneath the earth. An odour she had hoped to forget until her search for the Obscura Paintings forced her into the echoing vaults below the Louvre, teeth gritted the entire time.

While Karel waited patiently, she circled the Sleeper with slow deliberate steps, noting what appeared to be bare wingbones protruding from either side of its spine. The old insatiable curiosity getting the better of her, she inched forward, unable to resist the temptation to touch. She looked to Karel for any sign of warning or disapproval, but he just continued to contemplate the Sleeper with his usual calm.

Expecting intense heat, she found to her shock that reaching into the aura of blue fire was like putting her hand inside a freezer. The creature's skin was correspondingly chill but dry as well, feeling as if it were covered in a thin stubble of fur. Underneath there was no give in the flesh at all, just the textured firmness of muscle and sinew.

The biting cold started to hurt, and Lara withdrew her arm-it was covered in a film of frost up to the elbow.

She turned to Karel. "So that's what it will take to bring back the Nephilim?"

"Yes. The Sanglyph, and a sacrifice; lifeblood." Karel paused. "From the most powerful of us all."

He reached out, slowly, and brushed his fingers over the Sleeper's high ridged forehead, tracing the edges of the peculiar tan markings on its skin. Lara scowled faintly as something occurred to her. "Is the Sleeper really an 'it', or…"

"He," replied Karel, "is most definitely a 'he'."

"Oh," said Lara, lips parting slightly as she surveyed the creature again. Her gaze travelled down the suspended body, over the jutting angular hipbones and smooth, featureless groin. "But it doesn't look...I mean, it doesn't have..."

Karel turned his gaze on her. "Yes?" he prompted, one corner of his mouth curving upwards slightly.

She coughed politely. "Well, it _looks_ androgynous," she continued. "No male or female characteristics."

"It's just another form," he said equably. "One that we often took during the last days of our battles with mortals. It frightened them, and made it hard for them to single any of us out as targets, since we all looked the same…By the time we dug ourselves into the caverns, we were too weakened to change again."

"So it isn't your true form, then?" she pressed. He shook his head and said nothing more.

She stared at the Sleeper again. An ancient evil, Kurtis had said, and indeed there was a primitive ferocity about the creature, a world removed from Karel's calculated urbanity. It was hard to believe they were of the same species. _He_ looked every inch the successful cosmopolitan lawyer. But _this _being, she could easily envisage as the angel of death, bringer of wanton destruction. No doubt Eckhardt had hoped it would do terrible things at his command to anyone who stood in his way.

Her gaze lingered on the pointed claws, the blank, bloodred eyes. _And what would it do to _me_ if it awoke this very second_? she thought abstractedly.

"Eckhardt thought he could control him." Karel's resonant voice interrupted her thoughts. He pulled a tattered brown book out from his jacket, one that he had taken from the table in Eckhardt's lab as they made their way to the Sleeper's chamber.

Lara took it from him. The paper, crisp and yellowed with age, was covered with the Alchemist's uneven spiky scrawl, punctuated here and there by great inky flourishes and loops. She had no doubt at all that a handwriting analysis would indicate an unstable personality.

"'…_by the Glove and Sanglyph combined shall I bestir the Sleeper to my bidding,_'" she read aloud.

"The Sanglyph alone will wake him, if the ritual is performed correctly," said Karel.

"But the Glove-I saw Eckhardt use it to suck the lifeforce out of his victims!"

"That was how he prolonged his own life. Together with the Sanglyph, it would have been a force of unprecedented potency," said Karel. "If they were to be brought into direct contact with a Nephili…such a meeting of power would create a highly unstable energy matrix. Probably the only thing other than the Shards which could kill or permanently harm one of us. Eckhardt planned to use this threat to control the Sleeper, and have him do his bidding-with some help from Muller and Boaz."

Lara's brows knit in puzzled curiosity. "How exactly did they fit into all of this? Eckhardt didn't seem to think very highly of either of them."

"Boaz's work was focused on attempting to recreate Nephilim by injecting DNA into human and animal subjects. I think you saw the results for yourself."

She recalled being torn between pity and revulsion; the huge, shear-like claws, the thing's face as it lunged for Kurtis, drained of colour and humanity. "I shot one…when it tried to…" she hesitated. It was easier not to think about Kurtis. "It attacked me."

"Boaz and her underlings were incapable of keeping even those semi-Nephilim under proper control. It would have been almost amusing to see them try to handle a purebred." Karel turned his sleek blond head towards the Sleeper again. "And that's where Muller came in. He was researching new drugs that he hoped could be used to keep the reborn Nephilim docile, as well as trying to create a habitable environment for them."

"The Biodome!" realised Lara. She couldn't imagine the Nephilim-a proud race, if Joachim Karel was anything to go by-living their endless lives at Eckhardt's beck and call, confined in a glass-walled Eden.

"The two of them were a necessary evil-for a while. They had their uses. I suspect Eckhardt would have killed them once they'd served his purpose."

She looked at him sideways, arching an eyebrow. "And you?"

"Questions, questions, Lara…!" he said softly, an amused lilt to his voice.

"And there's plenty more where they came from. The proverbial cat has nothing on me," she responded with a light laugh.

"Very well." He turned away from the Sleeper and faced her, arms folded. "I _know_ I would have killed them, once they'd served _my_ purpose. In the end, I didn't have to. In any case Eckhardt was paranoid, like most power-hungry humans. He tried to conceal it, but he was constantly afraid that the lower-ranking Cabal members would try to seize power from him. I don't know why; they may have had some talent in their own fields but not one of them had the brains to outwit him."

From what little she'd seen of Boaz, Lara was inclined to agree. "What about Muller?" she asked thoughtfully, remembering her encounter with the fat little German in the Biodome.

Karel snorted. "Muller! Muller couldn't have outwitted a used teabag."

"Right." Lara decided to keep quiet about the face-spraying incident. "And if Eckhardt had succeeded in waking the Sleeper…I suppose his plans wouldn't have worked?"

Karel shook his head. "Not in the long term. The only thing that can master a Nephili…is another Nephili. "

"Tell me more about the Nephilim. There are others of them buried in Turkey…"

"Several." He continued, "My people were weakened to the point of death when they took refuge in the caves underneath Anatolia. We preserved ourselves by lowering our body temperatures until our metabolisms came almost to a halt, putting ourselves into sleep until the time was right.

"Cryonics! And here I thought that was a twentieth century invention."

"My people were skilled in the arts and sciences while yours were still carving crude figures into cave walls," he replied, a touch of superiority in his otherwise matter-of-fact tone. "The original Watchers, my father's race, gave much of their knowledge to the primitive humans they lived amongst. But this isn't a matter of science, not for a Nephili. Just physiological control."

"Impressive," she said archly. "Then why do we need to wake it-him-at all, if we're going to kill him?"

"Because it was his wish. He was our leader-the lord of our people-and he volunteered to be the sacrifice that would restore us to power after our long sleep. But first he wanted to see the new world that would be ours."

Lara digested all of this. The research she'd done as she followed the trail of the Paintings had been necessarily hasty, and despite the secrets she'd uncovered it seemed she had barely scratched the surface of the Nephilim mystery.

"I see." Her eyes went back to the diary. She turned the pages with care in case the paper crumbled.

_Autumn 1345, Prague. I have 100 summers to prepare for the revivifying of the Nephilim bloodline. And the reward for my labours will be- _

"Immortality," she murmured aloud, lowering the diary. Karel turned a keen gaze on her, his cool blue eyes narrowing with interest.

She'd always disliked and distrusted the idea of extending a life beyond its natural span. She remembered the things she used to say, casually, to Winston and Father Dunstan, when they fretted over her safety as she prepared to set off on yet another hazardous quest; hackneyed phrases about _when your time's up_ and _no-one living forever._ And yet at her core she'd never seriously doubted that she'd come back alive. But that was in another life; before Egypt, before death had come nearer than ever before, as though her own mortality had leaned close for a moment to brush freezing fingers across her face and whisper terror in her ear.

Karel took a step closer and spoke in low, promising tones. "You'll never have to worry about disease or sickness again, Lara. Neither your body nor your mind will ever become frail. You'll be young, and beautiful, forever."

Her eyes unfocused, she gripped the diary, thinking of Eckhardt again, and said, "Don't tell me I have to use one of those Gloves too? Not really my kind of fashion accessory…"

He shook his head. "I have something different in mind for you. Less bloody, for one thing."

"I'm very pleased to hear it."

Karel motioned with his hand towards the machinery, and it ground into life, drawing the Sleeper back towards the ceiling. "Time to visit the archives, I think. I've already added some interesting material to Rouzic's collection, from my own library. There were things Eckhardt couldn't be allowed to know, but you should have the full story."

As they walked through the huge doors out of the Sleeper's chamber, feet crunching on the sand, she looked back at the creature one last time.

"What do you call him?"

"His name is Amiel."

It wasn't until they were halfway to the archives that she registered, with a slight sense of shock, that he had called _her _beautiful.

* * *

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**I'm sure you're all familiar with how you map out a story, then it seems to take over and refuse to conform to your careful plans. I had a structure for this chapter but I soon realised I couldn't fit it in all in or it would be 4000 + words, so I gave up and split it in two. So this is a bit shorter than my other chapters. And still talkier than I'd have liked. But on the plus side most of chap. 8 is already done, and there will be action in it, come hell or high water.**

**Acid! You're back! Thanks for the review, and the one for the Diary one-shot as well (actually I'm planning more on that one) Yes, you will get to see the trial, I've already been researching French criminal law, yikes.**

**Hi Chiazmo, hee hee, glad you responded to my pokey stick wields it again Thanks so much for leaving a review-and hey, charming but dangerous, that's precisely how I see Karel so it's very gratifying to hear that that's how he came across to you. And poor old Kurtie...I'm sure he'll be fine...or maybe he won't :p**

**Lost Angel 21-Thanks for leaving feedback! It's nice to see the Nephilim fans gathering!**

**El-cruze-ooh, a new reviewer, welcome to RiS :) Kurtis isn't exactly the bad guy, it's more that Lara has switched sides which makes them enemies...**

**Cityofangels-aww, thanks for the praise, I appreciate your feedback.**

**Odd Little Turtle-thanks, hope I didn't make you wait too long! There's at least a few more twists coming up as well.**

**Chirugal-OK, fine, I'll forget all about my precious Lara/Bouchard fic :p No, that kind of thing is strictly sick-fic territory. You're absolutely right about it being more than 17 murders in total, and it wasn't just Carvier and Rennes , it was also Luddick and Vasiley. I won't count Bouchard since he wasn't killed in Monstrum style. Anyway, I've amended this, thanks for picking up on that, it's good to know someone else pays that kind of attention to detail.**

**Glad you like the Karel being Lara's lawyer thing-that was a late idea of mine, but in the interests of exploring his character, I thought it would be good to see him in his day job since I think he'd be a brilliant lawyer, and since Lara's accused of murder and needs to clear her name...it all fit together perfectly :)**

**Akkon-I'm pleased you liked the last chapter, I didn't exactly dislike it myself, I just thought it was a bit expository-of course that stuff is necessary too, but I prefer interweaving it with other stuff and not having great chunks of it all together. Still, this chapter is even worse, heheh. Thanks lots for the continued reviewing. I'll get back to you with the beta-ing asap now I've posted this!**

**Hey Ellethiel! waves madly No, you weren't rude at all in your last review. Thanks for reading, it's good to know that there are dedicated Karel fangirls in the audience! I love writing Karel, I just hope I'm doing him justice.**

**Hi Carola, hope your grandma's OK, I'm sure Eckhardt wouldn't harm her since you did such a lovely picture of him with his minions...**

**NFI-I think a lot of people miss Kurtie but he's really not the star of this fic...but as Lara said, we haven't seen the last of him :)**

**Hiya Hazel! Thanks for reviewing, nice to see you here. All your questions will be answered in time, I promise :-)**

**Shauni/hugs/ Thanks so much for your constant support, it means a lot-I'm glad you like my story enough to hang around between updates!**

**Now then... /drags chapter 8 in and threatens it with a gun/ Review-or chapter 8 gets it!**

**Jordy xxx **


	8. Revelations

Luther Rouzic's office in the depths of the Strahov fortress was a functional, sterile room, with a kitchenette and sofa bed off to one side. Lara pictured Rouzic engrossed in his work, his sickly form bent over the desk, pausing in his research only to eat and sleep-she'd done the same herself on many occasions. There was a far less thrilling side to archaeology than travel and the plundering of tombs; hours spent poring over books and manuscripts until her eyes and back ached, deciphering arcane symbols and folkloric half-truths, making endless pen marks on ancient maps barely strong enough to withstand the weight of the ink…

Her eyes lit on a coffee machine above the desk. Good.

Karel was busying himself in the neighbouring archive room, selecting certain books and papers from the shelves. Lara had already been inside, running her eyes over the deep shelves, which, Karel had told her, contained the sum of the world's knowledge-and speculation- on the Nephilim and subjects related to them. The room, high-ceilinged and long, hosted writings in hundreds of languages and from every age of civilization. On the first row of shelves lay heavy, airtight boxes, and when Lara had peered inside, she been greeted by the sight of cuneiform writing inscribed on tablets of hard-baked clay, the same golden-brown, she fancied, as the sands of ancient Sumer from where they had come.

She sat down, pushing aside the triangular desk sign that bore Rouzic's name, and beneath it "Librarian Honorarium" in Gothic lettering, and set to work.

She started with Eckhardt's diary, reading the whole thing this time while Karel continued to rummage around in the next room. As she turned the pages, she realised why the book was so slim; although it began in the fourteenth century it didn't contain six hundred years worth of writings, because there were no entries at all between 1445 and 1945.

"What happened in 1445?" she asked Karel, as he came in with an armful of papers. His eyes narrowed in subtle displeasure.

"Eckhardt decided that he would rather be the Nephilim's ruler than their servant. His betrayal was punished, but it left him vulnerable to the Lux Veritatis, who imprisoned him for five hundred years."

"Ah ha."

"It's all in here." He slid the papers onto the desk, resting an elegant, long-fingered hand on top of them.

She bent over the diary again. "Almost done…" The final entry was dated just over six weeks ago:

_The thrice cursed Shard of the Lux Veritatis maggots I have placed beyond reach. With it hidden none will stand against me. And wherever they lie, I will have the Obscura paintings. Never again will mortals be armed against me and my sacred quest! I will rule the Nephilim darkness of mankind!_

She closed the diary and pushed it away, her mouth twisting with both humour and distaste. _They always have to rant, don't they._

"I think I've read enough. More than enough, actually," she said aloud, glancing up at Karel.

"Well, think yourself lucky. I had to listen to that kind of thing for _decades_," he said sourly.

Lara suppressed a grin. "Must have been quite a relief to stick that Shard into his forehead," she suggested.

"You have no idea," he replied darkly, and this time Lara made no attempt to hide her smile as she met his gaze, her full lips curving irresistibly upwards while her rich brown eyes sparkled with mischievous amusement. Charmed, Karel inclined his head, giving her a faint answering smile.

Lara dropped her eyes, feeling suddenly and unexpectedly self-conscious. "Well," she drew the stack of papers towards her, "all of this should keep me busy for a few hours."

Karel nodded, his face resuming its usual impassivity. "I need do some work on our case for the trial. I'll be in the central control room."

With a long backwards glance, he left, and Lara took the first bundle of papers, noticing that they were covered in drawings as well as writing. On the uppermost page was an ink rendering of a bizarre humanoid creature with branching wings, one smooth and white, one black and jagged. The creature's face and body were bisected in the same way, the one side noble and beautiful, the other savagely demonic. At the foot of the illustration was a single word in a swirling script: _Nephilia._

She turned the page, and as she began to read, the words and images flowed together, forming themselves into a narrative in her mind.

x x x

Expelled from Heaven, the Watchers walked amongst men, and upon the earth bred a curse, an abomination of shadow which darkened the world long after the Watchers themselves had been thrown into the abyss to await final judgement.

In ancient times twelve blades of light were given to the people of Israel by the Archangel Michael; one for each of the twelve tribes, to aid them in their struggle against the Nephilim. Said to have been forged in Heaven, the Blades-blessed by Jehovah Himself-were the only weapons capable of killing one of the fallen ones or their halfbreed children.

Most of the Blades were destroyed in the fierce and bloody battles that followed, and by the time the last of the Nephilim fled in defeat and secrecy, only four were left intact. Believing the Nephilim annihilated, the Israelites did not take especial care to preserve the remaining Blades, and as time passed their whereabouts were forgotten, even as the Nephilim themselves passed out of memory.

Led by Amiel, firstborn son of the fallen angel Semjaza, the Nephilim had fled to Anatolia. This was a land that had been friendly to them in the past and where some of them had been worshipped as gods-by mortals who did not know their true nature, only that they were powerful, and if sufficiently pleased would grant favours; the healing of wounds and sicknesses, the assurance of a plentiful harvest.

Weakened and near death, sustained only by the close ties that bound them together against the rest of the world, they went out into the desert and dug for themselves cities below the earth. Here they planned to sleep until the time was right, until the world had forgotten them and their strength could be restored. And so they cooled their bodies and put themselves into slumber, oblivious to all except the thoughts of their companions, their dreams intermingling in the slow freeze.

In their deep caverns they remained undisturbed for millennia, although the upper reaches of the underground cities were used as dwelling places by many different peoples, including the early followers of Christ who would have been horrified had they known what lay sleeping beneath them. But sometime in the fourteenth century, the warriors of the Light of Truth-sprung from the ashes of the disgraced Templar Knights-discovered the Sleepers' hidden abode. Having access to ancient secrets, they alone knew of the fallen ones' continued existence, and after a long and arduous quest they also recovered the last of the Blessed Blades.

They journeyed through the alien landscapes of Cappadocia and took the Blades into the heart of the Nephilim city, where no mortal had ever set foot. Crossing the fire-river, they stood in the silence of the great cavern and wondered at what they saw…a score of sleeping Nephilim, each in their own rocky alcove, defenceless and unaware. The warriors drew their weapons.

The four Blades found their mark, and each one of the Sleepers felt the steel as though it had pierced his own heart.

They did not-could not-wake. But even in sleep they felt the life-flows of their brethren falter and die, in a final severance of the ancient bonds; and their high, keening wail made the cavern walls tremble so that the warriors halted in fear and amazement.

After a short time, the elders urged the Blade-wielders to continue. The Sleepers writhed torturously in their chambers, still crying out in rage and grief. But as the warriors took position and prepared again to deal the death blows, one of them suddenly became silent: the designated guardian of his people.

Jehoiakim, son of Sariel, awoke.

x x x

Lara's head came up with a jerk before she even knew she had dozed off. The small office was warm and stuffy, and she had been sitting in one position for several hours, focusing on faded ink while the soporific hum of the Strahov's power systems droned on in the background. She drew a hand across her tired eyes, keen to continue with the history but feeling her body rebel at the prospect of another long reading session. The thought of cool, fresh air suddenly seemed enormously enticing.

She stood up, wondering briefly how on earth Rouzic had managed to fit his long spindly legs into the tiny space under the desk, and set off to stretch her cramped limbs. The fortress was still thick with patrolling Agency soldiers, so it didn't take her long to find one who spoke English and ask him to take her to the nearest exit. The young man hurried to comply with a deference that made Lara smile grimly, considering how eager his comrades had previously been to dispatch her.

"I'll wait here until you return, ma'am," said the guard, taking up position next to the exit.

Lara stood in the doorway, inhaling the cold clean air. The dark imposing walls of the fortress rose up all around her, but in the distance she could see the green-golden spires and rooftops of Old Prague, frost-encrusted and sparkling with frigid regality under the pale sun.

She set off down the narrow road with no particular destination in mind, enjoying the thick muffled crunch of the snow as it compacted itself under her feet. She hadn't gone ten paces when a flash of black in her peripheral vision preceded a stunning blow to the side of her head.

She was knocked sideways and pain exploded in her skull, her vision momentarily overwhelmed by prickling points of light. Her sight cleared just in time for her to dodge a vicious thrust from a ten inch knife, aimed directly at her heart. Reaching down to her hips out of long habit, Lara hissed through her teeth at the sudden mental image of her twin pistols still lying in her hotel room's bedside drawer.

Still, she was hardly defenceless. A powerful high kick sent the man-was it a man?-staggering away through the snow, his arms flailing, but he simply righted himself and came at her again with the knife flashing in his hand. She ducked underneath his arm, and then there were several seconds of clashing bodies and whirling snow, in a grim near-silence as the combatants struggled for an advantage on the slippery ground.

Another slash, another duck. Lara managed to land a punch in the centre of the masked face, and followed it up by kicking the knife out of the man's hand as he recoiled, her feet sliding precariously as she did so. He lunged after the knife and she leapt at him from behind, trying for a grip on his throat. But her assailant spun round and hurled himself backwards, slamming Lara against the wall. She lost her hold, rebounded off the brick, and fell forward, all the air gone from her lungs. The burning cold of the snow on her hands and knees focused her mind and she forced herself to her feet, just in time to see the black-clad figure disappearing round the corner at the far end of the street.

She didn't even consider chasing him, instead concentrating on breathing, one palm pushing at her chest as a series of wheezing groans forced their way out of her mouth. When she was breathing normally again, she examined the collar of her jacket and saw that it had been shredded by a slash that must have come within millimetres of her jugular.

She'd lost form during the last two years. Most of her old strength and skill had returned as she followed the trail of the Obscura Paintings, but it had still been touch and go.

A quick search for the knife revealed nothing. Her attacker must have retrieved it as he fled. Scowling fiercely, she dusted herself off and went straight back inside. Locking the door carefully behind her, she turned to find herself facing Karel. They stared at each other, her expression startled and his questioning.

"I was looking for you," he said.

"I just went out for some fresh air, and..." Lara stopped, suddenly feeling the need to keep the incident to herself.

"And?"

"Well, I got some," she finished.

He raised an eyebrow. "Nothing...unusual happened?"

"Nothing," she said firmly.

He stared at her for a moment, both their faces unreadable.

"So when do we awaken the Sleeper?" she asked, moving past him before he could ask any more questions. He frowned but followed her.

"That's what I wanted to see you about," he said. "Everything is in place. We can begin the ritual as soon as you've finished your research."

"Just give me a few more hours...I've already read most of what you gave me. _Very _interesting. I knew the Lux Veritatis were dedicated to suppressing the Cabal, but I had no idea about their earlier adventures-how they broke into the underground city, and-"

"…and slaughtered my brothers and sisters while they were sleeping and helpless," Karel finished, his voice bitter.

They walked in silence for a while, the frown on Karel's face even more pronounced. As for Lara, the blood was still drumming in her ears from the fight, and she was experiencing a new and unwelcome sensation-a slight shakiness together with a tightness across her chest, nothing like the post-combat adrenaline rush she was used to. It had been too close a call, and it disturbed her that she'd been set on the moment she left the fortress. Whoever the man was, he must have been lying in wait and watching for a chance.

"When do we have to kill him-Amiel?" were her next words, spoken as much out of the need to distract herself from her own anxiety as the need for information.

Karel hesitated for a long moment before replying. His breathing seemed more rapid than usual. "As soon as we prepare the Shards, then it's time. It has to be done before we leave for Paris for the trial. By the way," he added shortly, "most of the soldiers here know nothing about the Nephilim or what we're really doing, so be careful what you say around them. I've had to keep up Eckhardt's pretence that we're simply doing archaeological research on Turkish artifacts."

Residual anger and alarm from the attack made Lara's next words incautious. "Not difficult for a seasoned liar such as yourself, surely?" she said waspishly.

Karel came to an abrupt halt, but as he was ahead of her, she didn't see his expression change.

"We Nephilim were once beings of light," he said softly. Whatever hint of warning was in his tone, Lara disregarded it.

"I know, I know. I read the literature. You don't need to come over all _Paradise Lost_ about it," she said bitingly.

Even as the words left her mouth she was aware of having overstepped a boundary, but there was no time to backtrack. Karel turned and brought the back of his hand across her face so hard she reeled backwards several steps, eyes widening in shock.

"That," he said coldly, "was for your insolence. Don't ever speak to me in that manner again."

Lara stood absolutely still, her mouth settling into a hard, tight line. Karel walked away, leaving her standing in the corridor.

x x x

Lara returned to the hotel alone and spent a restless night, tossing and turning while a deep bruise blossomed across one cheekbone. As bad as it was-and Lara didn't bruise easily-she didn't think he'd struck her with anything like his full strength. If he had, she'd probably have been looking at a newly ventilated skull.

Rising early, Lara glared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and came to a decision.

There was no answer when she knocked on the door of Karel's room, and when she asked at reception, the young man there told her-looking askance at her marred face-that he hadn't checked in that night. He also blushed as he asked for her autograph, a request she curtly refused. Now that the news about the forthcoming trial was out, she no longer had to conceal her identity, but it also meant she'd have to put up with the annoyances that came with being a public figure once more.

She directed the receptionist to call a car to take her to the Strahov, and leaned back against the marble counter while she waited, arms folded and face expressionless. On arrival, she went straight to the central control room, pausing on the stairs to see the expected blond, black-coated figure within.

He turned to face her as she entered the room and she, not quite meeting his gaze, directed her eyes downwards in a way that seemed subdued. Confidently expecting an apology, Karel folded his arms and waited for her to speak.

"Good morning," she said politely, then she looked up and hit him as hard as she could, right in the face.

"That was for your arrogance," she informed him with a casual coolness.

Recovering, he stared at her; a quick flash of indignant astonishment in place of his usual assurance. She clenched her other fist and hit him again, connecting with a force that staggered him, a Nephili, and even prompted a grunt of pain.

"And that's for knocking me out at the Louvre," she hissed. On the third swing, his hand snapped out and caught her wrist in an iron grip, twisting it downwards and drawing her inexorably towards him.

He shook his head, slowly. "That's the very last time you get to do that," he said, something dangerous kindling in his eyes. She made to pull away but he seized her other wrist and jerked her forward again so that their bodies almost touched.

"No," she growled at him as she fought futilely to break his hold. "You can also consider it payback for changing shape to confuse me, and oh yes… framing me… for Von Croy's… murder!"

His pupils contracted into furious points, and he slammed her back against the wall, her hands clawing at his chest and face.

Lara stopped her struggle, panting from the exertion. Hard teal eyes clashed with defiant mahogany ones and with a sudden fatalism, she was certain that she had gone further than Karel would allow, knowing that she was provoking a being who could snap her in two with his bare hands.

Karel licked a small ooze of greyish-green blood from his mouth, his gaze never leaving hers. His eyes narrowed to arctic blue slits, his fingers tightening on her wrists until she grimaced in pain…then he laughed and let her go.

"Lara Croft," he murmured, and stood contemplating her for a moment, the anger draining from his eyes. Lara blinked in amazement. His tone contained elements of something very like reverence.

"So are we equal now?" she asked in a hard voice, concealing shock at his reaction, but determined not to back down.

"You surprise me," he said by way of a reply. "Not many mortals have done that."

"I'm _special_," she returned sardonically.

"Yes. You are," he said seriously. "But then, I knew that from the first time I saw you."

He tilted his head, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he reached out to her, drawing his fingers caressingly across her cheek. There was a brief sensation of glowing warmth, and Lara knew, without needing to look, that the bruise had gone.

"You're charming," Karel murmured. His hand lingered on her face, a slow intimate gesture; her long lashes swept her cheekbones as she sighed softly under his touch. He continued, "Strong, intelligent, resourceful...unafraid...if any mortal could ever hope to be my equal, it would be you, Lara."

Lara drew in a deep breath and composed herself with an effort as he withdrew his hand. "Wonderful," she said, trying for her trademark dry wit. "Let's get one thing clear, I'm working _with_ you, not for you."

His eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn't say anything. She turned away from him, hands on her hips, chin held high and braid swinging behind her.

"And another thing," she said, "I am not calling you 'master'."

"No, I didn't think you would," he said, sounding amused.

Relaxing, she turned her head and favoured him with a brief smile.

"So then, we understand one another, Lara," he said evenly, folding his arms

"I think we do," she answered, facing him again, and then, with a lift of an eyebrow, "…Jehoiakim…"

His appreciative expression, like that of a teacher observing a gifted student, told her that her surmise had been correct. As they smiled at each other, they were both totally unaware that blue eyes, cold and resentful, were watching them from the shadows.


	9. Aspects

**On the off chance that it isn't clear-this chapter continues the history of the Nephilim and Lux Veritatis that Lara was reading in chapter 8-it might help to re-read that one first :-)**

_

* * *

Jehoiakim, son of Sariel, awoke._

_Blue flame metamorphosed into green, and the warriors, unprepared, cowered before his wrath. His reprisal was savage, and in the battle that followed, several of their company were killed and three of the Blessed Blades were destroyed; the fourth was shattered into three pieces. But newly awakened, his strength was soon spent and he was too weak to pursue them when they fled, taking with them the shards of the last Blade. Standing alone in the silence of the great cavern, he bowed his head and wept bitter tears for his slain kindred._

_Feasting on the blood of the fallen out of necessity revived him, and he went out into the world, taking the form of a mortal. Several days later, the warriors returned and, having failed to destroy the Sleepers, swore instead to confine them until the end of time. They took one of their own ancient treasures, the seal of the wisest of all kings, and in an ancient ritual used it to bind them in their ark under the earth._

_Jehoiakim soon learned that his race had become legend, and he resolved to find a way to reawaken them to dominion, as he had vowed long ago when the Nephilim first interred themselves. It did not take him long to find the infamous Black Alchemist, a man willing to harness the darkest of arts to his cause, as he hid from persecution by the church which viewed men like him as sorcerers._

_Having wasted his youth in a fruitless search for the Philosopher's Stone _-here Lara raised her head from the papers and allowed herself a smug smile-_ he was now labouring day and night to find the universal panacea. It was easy to make a pact with him; his long-sought immortality in exchange for a way to revive the Nephilim._

_He was given the knowledge necessary to create the Glove, a means by which he might drain the life from others to prolong his own. Over a hundred years he used the blood of his victims to create the Sanglyph. But as it neared completion, in his lust for power he decided he would rather rule the Nephilim than serve them, and he planned to use Sanglyph and Glove together, so that the Nephilim would be made subject to him on their awakening._

_For his betrayal he was punished and brought low, but this left him vulnerable to the Lux Veritatis warriors who were closing in on him and his Cabal from their strongholds all over Europe. He was cast into the darkness underneath Castle Kriegler, restrained by the power of the three Shards and guarded day and night by Lux Veritatis brothers. They had also seized the Sanglyph, and since they could not destroy it, split it into five pieces and hid it in secret places all around the world, concealed in the canvas of Brother Obscura's paintings._

_The Cabal never stopped their efforts to continue Eckhardt's work and the Lux Veritatis never stopped opposing them. Their battles had an unfortunate habit of spilling over into history, with the rest of humanity sometimes caught helplessly in between, as when the Great Fire burned London to the ground._

_By 1945, Joachim Karel, as he was now known, had been living in Europe for over two hundred years. He had watched with detached interest as the world threatened to tear itself apart twice, but the latest conflict is coming to a head, and Allied bombs release the Alchemist from his long confinement…_

"And the rest, as the saying goes, is history." Karel leaned over Lara's shoulder, running his fingers idly across his own name on the parchment. She glanced up at him and read the last lines:

_Imprisoned by stone and spell, the Nephilim sleep on through the centuries, their dreams made restless by the remembrance of blood and the promise of shadow. The time of their final awakening draws near. In darkness divine they will rule over the earth, and any who stand against them will be utterly destroyed._

Lara finally lifted her head from the papers, rubbing absently at her neck and shoulders.

"Well," said Karel expectantly.

Lara stretched unhurriedly and took a long drink from the steaming cup of coffee beside her. It was past four o' clock and a warm hazy gold streamed through the tall windows of Karel's hotel suite, the evening's light stripped of the evening's _froideur _by the interposing glass.

"Five hundred years in a pit!" she murmured. "No wonder he was psychotically unhinged afterwards."

"I don't think the pit made a great deal of difference, to tell you the truth," said Karel musingly.

"And what were _you_ doing all that time?"

"Waiting. Watching. Studying your legal systems. Five centuries isn't such a long time."

"It certainly seems like it to me!"

""You're still so young, Lara. You'll feel differently one day."

His words brought home with a jolt the fact that although he only looked about ten years her senior, his real age must have been somewhere in the thousands. He must have seen so much, lived through the history that she, for all her passion for the past, would only ever know from afar via artifacts and words on a page. She made a mental note to ask him about it sometime.

"I must seem like a child to you," she said, suddenly discomfited by the thought.

He looked at her a long moment and simply said, "No."

She was surprised by the strength of relief the simple negative engendered. Something of it must have shown on her face, because now he was looking at her curiously, so she dragged her attention back to the writings that had filled her mind for most of the afternoon. A particular phrase lingered in her mind. "The wisest of all kings…that's Solomon."

"I'm pleased to see your scriptural knowledge is up to the task."

"Well, I was brought up as a Catholic." Lara swung round in her chair to look at him, one knee casually hooked over the other. "To get to the other Nephilim, we need the Seal of Solomon?"

"Yes. You know of it?"

"I know the story…a magical signet ring possessed by King Solomon, inscribed with the Name of God and said to have the power to bind…"

Her gaze slid up to meet his. Karel's lips parted slightly, his eyes compelling her to go on.

"…demons," she finished. She looked at him with frank curiosity, her caramel coloured eyes solemn beneath their fringe of glossy lashes. "Is that what you are, Karel?"

"What do you think?" His voice was low.

Lara considered the question half-seriously, leaning back in her chair to stare at the ceiling. "Your name…"Established by Jehovah." Is that supposed to be ironic?"

"Perhaps," he said, almost too quietly for her to hear, "…but our forefathers were angels."

"_Fallen_ angels, by most accounts. In church tradition, fallen angels and demons are one and the same thing..."

Her mind fled back to childhood and one late spring morning in particular, squirming restively on the hard pew between her parents as she listened to Father Dunstan read the lesson in his lilting Irish accent: _"And our Lord said, 'I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven...'" _

She turned her attention back to the present and Karel. "But you-well, you don't _seem_ to have horns or a forked tail," she said, teasing him, wondering how he would react. He snorted softly in what she took to be amusement, and a playful half-smile tugged at her mouth. "Can't see any wings, either, though…"

His reply almost made her choke on her coffee: "They're well hidden, that's why."

"What! You're not…" her voice died away as one look at his face told her he was totally serious. She put her mug down. "Can I see?"

He regarded her for a moment with an enigmatic, slightly calculating expression. Then, turning aside, he pulled off his gloves and dropped them onto the desk. His jacket and scarf followed suit, and lastly his turtleneck sweater. As he pulled it over his head, his skin seemed to flicker and go out of focus for a second, the subtle grey hues of the Nephilim creeping into his face and down over his lean, but well defined, chest and arms. Twin shadows spilled from his shoulder blades and down his back, shadows which grew and spread until they brushed the floor, like length after length of dark satin unfolding and standing away from his body.

With a sound like the rippling of shaken leather, he swished his wings back and forth a couple of times, just as someone might stretch their legs after a long, cramped car journey. Then he spread them, upwards and outwards, to their fullest extent.

Lara rose slowly from her chair, eyes wide, and if she thought the past few years had deprived her of the capacity to feel wonder, she was cured of the notion as she took in the sight before her. He looked like an image of a Renaissance angel in negative, the wings and eyes ebony, the hair and brows white with a purity that made the blanketing snow outside look dull. His skin was a beautiful maze, smoky tendrils spiralling restlessly over the contours of his face and body.

The sunlight streamed in soft molten waves around the great arching span of his wings, which, unfurled, had to measure at least fifteen feet from tip to tip. Stepping closer, she revised her initial impression of _ebony_-they shimmered ethereally in the dusk, and though at first they appeared uniformly black, she saw rippling bronze highlights, and flashes of a low violet which blended to jade, a myriad of sombre hues coalescing across the darkly iridescent surface. Fascinated, Lara stretched out a hand, and he nodded in response to her unspoken question.

From his shoulder blades the wings swept gracefully upwards to blunted points. He curved them down and forwards, around his body and hers, inviting her to touch.

Her fingers slid on the satiny surface. The wing was silky, and warm in contrast to the remembered temperature of his skin, but Lara sensed considerable power there as well. Slowly, she ran her fingers from the joint at his shoulder all the way to where the great primary feathers curved and overlapped each other at the tip.

He remained perfectly still, his head turned a little, just watching her. He was so close that she could feel his cool breath stirring the mahogany strands of hair that framed her face; his eyes were pools of shadow and his scent filled her nostrils, like sandalwood, perhaps, but with subtle undertones of something alien and exotic.

Immediately below the topline the feathers were fine and downy, but further down they felt almost imperceptibly rougher, like brushed velvet. Absorbed in the subtle play of colour and texture beneath her fingers, she barely noticed his breathing quicken as she stroked downwards. At the lowest edges the feathers took on a faint sheen of metallic silvery-grey, as though he had carelessly swept them through powdered mercury.

Eventually and with some reluctance she let her hand drop, hesitated, then inclined her head to the patterned skin of his chest. Lightly, daringly, she traced the hypnotic swirls with her fingertips, marvelling at their near-perfect symmetry. "Karel," she murmured, as close to awe-struck as she had ever been. "Joachim…"

She drew back, looking him in the face. His eyes searched hers. And his lips curled slowly into a wicked, knowing smile, white lashes lowering secretively over the brilliant black eyes in an expression unlike anything she'd seen before on that sombre face.

Almost shocked, she sank back down into her chair, lips parted, unable to take her eyes off him. He kept returning her gaze as he curved his wings upwards until the tips touched high above his head, stretching them until they shuddered, muscles straining under the sleek sable feathers. Then he closed them, folding them down tightly against his body.

Presently he sighed and lowered his head, closing his eyes in apparent contemplation for a moment. When he put his sweater back on, only the faintest outline of the wings remained visible underneath, and then only if you were looking for it.

_So much for fallen angels being stripped of their wings-_as the stories always said. Lara realised how flexible they must be, to be hidden away like that. She wondered if it hurt to keep them bound up for so long.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes while the pale grey of his skin began to give way to warmer everyday shades. The black colouration likewise faded from the whites of his eyes, but the irises remained darkened, as though his pupils were widely dilated.

"Why the Scandinavian colouring?" she asked, finally, softly, suddenly curious.

It was several seconds before he replied. "I've been using it a long time. Since I first came to Europe, in fact. You get used to it. It's like a favourite set of clothes."

_That_ was something Lara could relate to. Her old green vest top and shorts had been like a second skin on her travels. It was with some difficulty that Winston had persuaded her she'd need something more substantial for her trips to Russia and Antarctica.

She smiled innocently. "I see. I thought perhaps you'd just modelled yourself on Sting…"

Karel's brow furrowed. "I did no such thing," he said indignantly. "And it's not as easy as it looks, you know. Most Nephilim didn't master their shapeshifting ability properly until they reached their third decade."

He turned to look at her again. "All right," he said, pulling his gloves back on. "Now, how about you tell me what _really_ happened when you left the fortress yesterday?"

Caught off guard by the abrupt change of subject, Lara scowled. "What?"

He looked at her calmly. "You don't live among mortals for centuries without learning to recognise prevarication, Lara. I can always tell when one of you is lying. _Always_."

She could have guessed as much, from the way the ice blue of his eyes had bored into her own, as though her thoughts were plain to read there. "That must be a useful talent in the courtroom," she said vexedly.

"It is," said Karel, and waited.

She stared straight ahead, jaw set. "I was attacked," she said finally, and his face darkened.

She recounted the brief, furious fight, and he listened in silence, frowning as he gave his full attention to what she was saying.

"I couldn't see his face," she finished. "But whoever it was…wanted me dead."

In the silence that followed, as he stalked over to the window and glared out unseeingly at the setting sun, neither one of them said the name that was at the forefront of both their minds.

* * *

**I beg everyone's forgiveness for the three month hiatus. The story wasn't actually on hiatus at all, but my writing ability was-I struggled with this chapter night after night until I was sick of the sight of it, and I still wasn't getting anywhere. At least when I finally got going again, this chapter turned out at over 4000 words, so I cut it I half. Meaning that chapter 10 is done and ready to post! If you want to see it soon, you know what to do. Review! That's right, I have no shame :p**

**Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed so far-your feedback means a lot to me, I hope you keep reading.**

**Thanks also to Chirugal for reading over the opening section for me when I was panicking that it sounded awful, and to Catlantean for creating a beautiful picture of Karel that I used as a visual reference for the wing scene!**

**Jordy xx**


	10. In Shadow

**In Shadow **

Karel said nothing almost all the way back to the Strahov fortress.

As their car drew up outside, he said to her, "Until we've resolved this, I don't want you wandering off alone again."

"I can look after myself."

"I've no doubt of that. But I'd rather be certain. Let me look into it." His eyes held hers until finally she shrugged and nodded in agreement.

There were fewer guards than usual patrolling the winding corridors. The entire fortress felt as if it were enveloped in a sacred hush, a huge brick and steel temple about to bear witness to the most ancient secrets of all.

Karel stopped as they reached an intersection in the corridor. "I'm going to the laboratory to start the preparations for the awakening. I'd like you to go and collect something from the central control room."

"Something being…?"

"I take it you know now where the Periapt Shards came from."

"They're the remnants of the last of the Blades, of course."

"And they have to be reforged into a single blade again. Nothing else will kill a full blooded Nephili."

At her questioning glance, he added, "It's already done. I ordered Gunderson to take care of it. So, if you'd be kind enough to go and get it from him, I'll meet you in the Lab."

He drew something out from the inside of his coat; the Sanglyph. Her eyebrows rose.

"You won't be missing anything," he said. "It's an unremarkable ceremony, and I'd rather you weren't there when he first awakens."

With a gesture, Karel drew a nearby guard over to them and indicated that he should go with Lara. "I've impressed upon Gunderson that he should consider himself your subordinate as well as mine."

"I'm sure he was delighted to hear _that_. Don't worry, I won't let him give me any trouble."

Gunderson was waiting for her as she arrived at the central control room with her silent escort, holding something long and slender wrapped in black cloth.

"Evening, Gunderson," she said brightly, and held her hand out for it. He simply looked at her, as imposing as ever, something in his stance and the tense grip of his fingers suggesting that he would be just as happy to see the Blade embedded in her chest as the Sleeper's.

"Didn't Karel tell you you had to do what I said?" she asked with conscious impertinence. He dropped it into her palm, his face expressionless.

"You can go now," she said, and turned her back on him. After a few seconds, she heard him leave, slamming the door, and she held the package up in front of her and pushed aside the cloth.

The sword was beautiful, a far grander version of its former incarnation as the Shards. The blade itself was translucent and shimmering with crystalline blue highlights which ran ceaselessly up and down its length. The handle, by contrast, was a rich gold colour, the hilt throwing out a gilded aura like a lion's mane. The weapon did not so much reflect the room's light as absorb and intensify it.

She stood for a moment in thought, then told the guard to take her to Eckhardt's laboratory as quickly as possible.

On her arrival, she dismissed the man and poked her head cautiously through the tall doors, her gaze rapidly sweeping the huge sunless chamber. The Sleeper in his bindings had been lowered to floor level, but there was no sign of Karel, which for the moment suited Lara perfectly. His concerns notwithstanding, this was something she intended to witness. Still clutching the Blade, she quickly crossed the floor and took up position in the shadows, behind one of the massive stanchions.

A few minutes afterwards Karel came in, bolting the doors behind him. The lights dimmed as he strode purposefully across to the centre and stood tall before the Sleeper. Taking out the Sanglyph, he held it up and appeared to be concentrating hard. It began to glow with a dull, throbbing red light that hurt her eyes. His lips forming words that she couldn't quite hear, he then took the disc in one palm and held it against the Sleeper's chest, the red glow enveloping the whole of the emaciated figure before abruptly shutting off. The Sanglyph itself simply disintegrated in Karel's hand, falling away into a fine dark powder.

And that was that; unremarkable, just as he had said, but what came next wasn't.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the electric blue fire surrounding the Sleeper flickered, died, and revived in a furious burst of emerald. A split-second later, the red eyes came alive and in a deathly silent blur he broke all his bracings and lunged at Karel, clawed hands snatching for his throat before Lara had time to draw breath.

Her hand went to the Blade, but Karel was quicker. Showing no sign of alarm, he caught the talons in his own hands and held them away from himself while the other Nephili writhed and snarled, keen teeth snapping inches from his face.

Lara stared. "Talk about getting out of bed on the wrong side…" she muttered.

She inched forward cautiously, lying on her stomach, grasping the stanchion with one hand and peering around it.

Karel's form wavered in the dim light, and for an instant there were two identical tall, angular figures in front of her; then he changed again into the Nephilic aspect, his hair glowing whitely in the gloom. The Sleeper tilted his head and opened his mouth. A long snakelike tongue flickered over thin colourless lips. "Jehoiakim," he said in a dry hiss, and let go.

Karel took a step back. "You can come out now, Lara," he said without turning around.

Lara's mouth quirked. _Of course…_

Reasoning that it might not be a good idea to approach a newly awakened Nephili while holding a Lux Veritatis weapon, she set it down on the sand and cautiously crept closer.

She felt like an intruder as she watched them stare into each other's eyes. The other one raised a hand again, gently this time, and touched it to Karel's temple.

"How did you know I was there?" she murmured as she drew nearer.

"How did I know you'd ignore my advice?" countered Karel, but her attention was taken entirely by the Sleeper…by Amiel…as it lowered its hand and turned its head with slow deliberation.

She could hardly bear to meet the eyes that burned into her like twin scarlet searchlights. It made the hairs on the back of her neck rise in alarm, and suddenly Lara knew how the lone gazelle must feel under the lioness' piercing stare, small, horribly exposed, and marked for death.

It was all she could do to stop herself from flinching as the creature leaned close-too close-and sniffed at her with jerking movements of its head, wide nostrils flaring as it took in her scent. Its proximity triggered every primitive warning system in her body, her pulse accelerating madly as jolts of adrenaline washed through her, and every instinct screamed at her to _move, run._

_My second close Nephilim encounter of the day. Not quite as…gratifying as the first one._

Karel was simultaneously speaking to it, in a language she didn't understand but recognised as Hebrew. It turned its head in his direction without taking its eyes from Lara. Its stare was unblinking-literally, since it had no eyelids. And with no discernible irises or pupils either, it was like looking at two holes cut into a skull filled with fierce crimson light.

"It'll be some time before he reorients himself," said Karel, looking closely into the savagely elegant face.

It spoke a few words in a difficult rasp. Karel listened, then said, "He wants you to know that he's pleased you're helping our cause."

It bared long teeth at her in what could have been a smile, or equally, a statement of its intention to feast on her flesh. "My pleasure," she said faintly.

"I think you should leave him alone for a while," Karel said. "He's not accustomed to human company. Come on," he added, as she remained transfixed by fear and fascination in equal measure, taking her hand and pulling her away. "If you want to watch, you can do so from up there." He looked up to the catwalk, then back to her, and she allowed herself to be removed; not that she'd have had much of a choice, had it come to a contest of physical strength.

"You certainly are fond of danger, aren't you," he remarked as they crossed the grated floor.

"I used to live on it."

"And now?"

"I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I have an assignment you might consider worth your while."

"Ah-ha. You want me to recover the Seal of Solomon."

"That's a trail that's been cold for six hundred years. Do you think you could pick it up again?"

"If I can't, no-one can," she replied, but inwardly she felt the same churning unease that had gripped her as she stood above the Tombs of Ancients, knowing she would have to descend, wanting to be anywhere else. If she'd been given free choice, she would never again have left the daylight behind to crawl beneath suffocating, oppressive tons of rock and dirt.

She swung up onto the ladder and Karel followed her, their feet making dull metallic clangs on the treads. It was even darker there than at floor level, the bright aluminium railings fading to ghost-grey before disappearing into shadow above them and to either side.

"Tell me, Lara," Karel said as they reached the top. "There must be something you want…something that your wealth couldn't get for you…

Lara swallowed hard and took several seconds to answers. "A few years ago," she began, "some friends of mine were murdered…in Africa…all I had to go on was a bullet I took from one of the bodies." In fact she had had to use a hunting knife to cut it out from where it was lodged in Putai's chest, tears of rage and despair falling onto the still face, the sand around them formed into viscous red clumps.

Her fingers crept upwards unconsciously to touch the Amulet. "I couldn't match it to any known weapon. I never found the killers. But I promised myself that someday I would..."

"So you want revenge."

She hesitated, about to open her mouth and form the word _justice_ instead-and then she thought, _why soften it? Why lie?_

"Say it, Lara." Karel's voice was low and compelling in her ear.

Her eyes lifted, clear and hard. "Yes. I want revenge."

He contemplated her without replying, then turned to look back down at Amiel. The expression on his face never altered, but she thought that perhaps he seemed…sad? wistful? as they watched the other Nephili, unsteady on his clawed feet, moving this way and that as he took in his surroundings.

"His blood, his essence, will be the catalyst to bring the rest of my kindred back to power. Our bloodline is the most powerful this world has ever known."

Karel tapped his fingers lightly against the railing. Lara decided that he wasn't sad, just pensive. She was learning to interpret the most subtle nuances of his moods.

He continued, "And with the last of the Blades in our hands…and with the Lux Veritatis all but destroyed…there will be none left who can stop us."

She turned to him with the earliest stirrings of anticipation.

"You said you wanted revenge. And you shall have it. You will rule the Nephilim by my side, and they will heed your command just as they heed mine. They will do anything you want, Lara…rule nations in your name…be the instruments of your retribution…"

His eyes, black as night, lingered in hers before he directed his gaze down into the arena again, and she did likewise.

Leaning on the railing in the enveloping obscurity with Karel close beside her, Lara saw her future beginning to take shape, nebulous as yet, and stretching down a long road into shadow…but these shadows she welcomed, and she smiled slowly in dark satisfaction.

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**Quickest. Update. Everrr :-) **

**Thanks very much for all your lovely reviews last chapter, especially to those I haven't yet thanked personally, or haven't been able to (like the anonymous reviews) Everyone have a sugar muffin from my latest batch! **

**I'm really pleased that the wing scene went down so well, as I spent ages lovingly crafting it with fangirlish dedication. And you haven't seen the last of those wings, either.**

**Now, _click _that review button and bring meaning to Jordy's pathetic, weaselly existence... ;)**


	11. Firstborn

**Firstborn**

The faded ink swayed before Lara's eyes, unfocused not through fatigue but through restlessness. She leaned on her elbows, turning pages moodily, mechanically, without really taking in the information spread out in front of her.

The four days since the Sleeper's awakening had been long and indistinct ones, in which she had seen very little of Karel, and nothing at all of his newly revived brother, as they spent long hours alone together in the depths of the fortress, talking, presumably, and - she didn't know what else. Amiel was a vital part of their plan, she knew, but all the same she found it difficult to suppress a vague sense of displeasure, bordering on resentment; impossible not to experience the other Nephili's unseen presence as an intrusion, an interruption - of something between herself and Karel that she wasn't even sure how to quantify...

And she had begun to feel that her life in general was in a holding pattern. It didn't suit her to have to wait for things she would rather put behind her as quickly as possible - the sacrifice, the trial...and the search for the Seal.

At something of a loose end, she had returned to sift through Rouzic's carefully catalogued documents again in the hope of unearthing information on the Seal. And she had, but nothing that would help her locate it, just fragmented stories from the divine traditions; Muslim, Christian and Jewish voices, all competing to tell the most wonderful tales about its powers.

Her fingers, hovering vaguely above the rough parchment, came to rest on a particular illustration, as grainy and blurred with age as the text underneath it:

_The Seal in its simplest form is often depicted as a six-point star or hexagram_, she read.

Lara traced a forefinger over the intersecting triangles. "Hexagram..." she murmured aloud, her brow creasing. An image flashed in her mind's eye, a design. Red on black, a latticework of fire enclosing a screaming death's-head. Looked at through the eyes of the uninitiated, it might have been taken for the motif of some heavy metal band, a generic sign of rebellious youth. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. _Power to bind demons_. If there was anyone who might know the Seal's location...

But she knew very well that there'd be no help coming from that particular source. She'd just have to find it by herself, then. It gave her an unhappy jolt to look back and think how, once, she would have been brimming with excited anticipation at the challenge.

Her musings were interrupted by a shadow falling across the doorway. She looked up into a pair of hard blue eyes set into an equally unyielding face.

She straightened with a frown, closing the book. "What is it, Gunderson?"

As she approached him she was acutely aware of the difference in their sizes. The man was a mountain, a soldier whose powerful features, the gimlet eyes, chiselled cheekbones, and Roman nose over firm, straight lips, might have been carved from granite.The gray in his beard did nothing to make him seem more benevolent, simply lending him an air of seasoned authority.

"He wants to see you," Gunderson informed her curtly, "up on the roof."

The hostility between them had lessened not one iota. Lara could practically feel him bristle as she passed close to him, but she didn't care, glad of the chance to talk to Karel again.

Gunderson followed her out into the corridor. Mentally, she balked at the thought of him walking behind her where she couldn't see him. "I don't need an escort," she said over her shoulder.

"I don't plan to provide you with one, either," he growled, turning off through another doorway. Lara shrugged and kept going, climbing all the way to the top of the fortress.

As she came out onto the rooftop, the air was a little less bitter than before. Her eyes dropped to a set of neat footprints leading away over the receding snow. She followed them, eyes on the ground, walking unhurriedly, feeling more lighthearted than she had done in days. It was evening, and the light was just beginning to fade.

Three quarters of the way across the roof, the footprints altered, becoming jagged, blurring into a set of clawed tracks-

She stopped dead and looked up. The Nephili turned slowly from the roof's edge to greet her, but not the one she'd expected.

Amiel favoured her once more with that glowing crimson glare, those eyes which she felt must be able to penetrate skin and see through to bone and muscle, and deeper than that, down to her very thoughts. After a few uneasy moments he turned his back on her again, apparently to resume his contemplation of the city.

They stood without speaking for a long time. As he leaned heavily on the roof wall, she couldn't see his face, just his back with the naked wingbones, the tendrils set proudly on the back of his head. Only the laboured sound of his breathing broke the silence, and Lara was on the verge of leaving, when -

"So this is your world," he said in careful, sibilant tones, and she turned back, her eyes widening.

"It sickens me," he said, and lowered his head. He sounded a little like Karel - the same inflections - but rougher, less deep, with a slight hiss that betrayed his comparative lack of civilisation. _Human_ civilisation, she corrected herself. She wondered what he had seen of that civilisation since his awakening, what Karel had told him. It must be vastly different from the world he had known.

"Your people," he said dismissively, "you're like infants, left alone to make chaos and conflict for yourselves."

She remained silent, partly agreeing with him but finding herself uncomfortably on the defensive.

He turned his head so that the long, stark planes of his profile were etched against the evening sky. "How can any mortal be expected to attain true wisdom when they live for a century at most?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to face her fully, so that she saw the branching tan markings over his brow and cheekbones, jaggedly beautiful against the pale skin. "And now, my brother tells me, you are going to help us claim our inheritance...and perhaps save your own people as well."

Lara wasn't sure she'd heard correctly."_Save_ my people?"

"From themselves, of course. From their own eventual self destruction. Our fathers before us taught your ancestors the use of weapons so that they could defend themselves if needed. Look at what you've done with that knowledge."

Lara shook her head. "I don't deny what you say, but I'm no saviour. And I don't think you're doing any of this for charity, either. Didn't I read something about 'enslaving the sons of man'?"

He snorted forcefully through dilated nostrils. "And who do you think wrote those words? One of the holy warriors whose order existed to extinguish my kind...yes, I felt their swords even as I slept, pouring out the lifeblood of my kin like water. I hear there may be one of them who lives still. I would very much like to meet _him_..."

He flexed his long fingers, scoring the sharp claws along the top of the wall. A fine curtain of dust rose from the grooves left in the solid stone and wafted away into the evening.

"We are creatures of both heaven and earth, but we're bound to this earth for as long as it lasts. Our two species cannot live together as equals; this much we learned long ago. We will not retreat into hiding again, to await our own slow deaths in the deep places. So the choices are set before us: we rule over mortals, or they destroy us. Which would you choose? We want our kind to survive, to flourish again...is that so wrong?"

Lara felt a twinge of impatience. "I'm on your side already, you know," she said snappishly. The expression on Amiel's face immediately evoked the memory of a painful, bruised cheek, and she was silently thankful for his weakened condition.

"I am the eldest of the Nephilim," he said lowly. "I will satisfy myself as to where your loyalties lie."

"Is this an interrogation, Amiel?"

He ignored her question, the skull tendrils swaying almost gracefully as he moved toward her. "My people are the higher race. It is our right to rule, it is in the very nature of things that the strong should lead the weak. I will not pretend that no blood will be shed. But as for thoughtless, wholesale destruction - that's the preserve of your race. That's why they will fare far better under our guidance and control."

And the effort of speaking for so long exhausted him, so that he stood gasping for breath, his emaciated sides heaving. His head dropped, and for a moment she thought he was going to collapse.

She made a slight instinctive movement towards him, but a quick baring of his teeth, a soundless warning snarl, brought her up short.

"But you're half human. It's your race too. Your mothers' race."

His teeth flashed as he snarled for real this time, in a sudden burst of sound that made Lara take an involuntary step back. "The woman who bore me tried to kill me when she saw what she had given birth to. When I did not die despite her very best efforts, water and fire and blade, she took me out into the desert under the blazing sun and left me there. And then returned to her people and her father's house, justified in the eyes of her God."

Lara felt a desperate stab of pity go all the way through her at his words, and she didn't know what to say. _My mother rejected me, too,_ is what she wanted to say, but it sounded so trite, so inadequate, and she doubted he would appreciate her sympathy.

Her eyes were downcast as she finally spoke: "So…you were outcasts from birth?"

"Many of us. Others were more fortunate. Take my brother Jehoiakim...his mother gave her own life to protect him from our enemies. And so he is somewhat more inclined to have faith in your kind than I am. He thinks very highly of _you_."

"And you don't share his opinion."

He gave her a long, speculative stare. "Mortals are supposed to be our subjects, not our mates."

Lara was momentarily stunned into silence. "What! I don't know what you think-"

He cut across her. "Do you know why our fathers fell from their celestial estate, Lara Croft?"

"Pride?"

Somewhere in the depths of his eyes, the red glow intensified.

"_Desire_." And the word was a sensuous hiss, accompanied by his gaze sliding over the contours of her body in a way that made her feel as if she were standing naked before him. His lips lifted in a sly half-smile as his eyes came back up to meet hers. "Plain, simple desire. Because of their yearning for you." The smile faded. "And because of your hatred for us, we were weakened to the point of death and driven beneath the earth. Tell me, then, should my brother and I place our trust in you? Or will you simply exploit our plight to your own ends, like the other one did?"

She looked into his eyes and for a second, what she saw there was neither savagery nor lust nor contempt, but a simple echo of what she herself had felt on their first waking encounter. Slowly, she began to comprehend.

"I'll do what I said I would," she said, holding his gaze. "Help you to bring the others back."

He didn't reply. His eyes lasered into her for several seconds more, and she determinedly resisted the impulse to look away.

"I wish to speak to my brother." Suddenly, he turned his back on her again. "Go."

Lara scowled at this abrupt dismissal, but she couldn't see any point in standing there talking to his back. Slowly, she turned and went back across the roof. Before she reached the door, she turned to look at him standing there, alone in the snow.

As she paused, she heard the roof door opening, and the sound of footsteps, and someone came to stand beside her. "Joachim," she said with certainty.

"Lara," he replied, and something stirred, deep inside her, at the sound of his voice. With Amiel's words still fresh in her mind, she looked up at him, a little unnerved. He frowned slightly, eyes moving over her face, and again she had that disconcerting sense that her thoughts were plain to be seen.

She nodded towards Amiel. "Well, the world's longest lie-in obviously didn't do much for _his _temper," she said dryly.

He gave her a faint, rueful smile.

"He's not going to recover, is he?" she said after a pause.

He glanced in the same direction. "No," he said slowly. "I gave him blood from one of Gunderson's soldiers so that he could disguise himself. But he's too weak to hold the form for long."

"Blood?"

"That's how we do it. We can only imitate someone's form if we have a sample of that person's blood."

She sighed, lowering her face. Blood; somehow, it all kept coming back to that, blood and shadows.

Karel touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek, turning her face to his. "We'll talk soon." He regarded her for a few moments more, then laid a palm against her other cheek, briefly, before walking away towards the other Nephili.

She watched them a little longer, then went back inside.

x x x

As he crossed the roof, Karel's eyes darkened in mimicry of the sky, daytime blue fading to be replaced by the black clouds of night.

Amiel turned and took a few steps towards him as he approached, stretching out a long lean arm. Karel reached out to touch his fingertips, then pushed his hands into his pockets, waiting expectantly for the other to speak.

"Have a care, brother," he said at length, in their own ancient tongue. "Consorting with mortals…"

Karel turned his head away dismissively. "The Watchers themselves did so."

Amiel sighed deeply, his breath rising mist-like into the cold air. "And you, Jehoiakim, were the most wilful of all their children." A few moments of silence. "Would you pay me any mind, even now, if I said I had found her unworthy?"

Their eyes met in a look of long understanding.

"As I thought," said Amiel softly. "Because it is clear to me that the Alchemist-" - he spoke the name over a guttural growl, " - was wholly undeserving of our confidence."

Karel raised his head, frowning at the implicit rebuke. "_He_ was no more than an unwitting pawn. I never revealed myself to _him_. Not even at the very end."

"Aahhh…" said Amiel curiously. "Then the woman is the only one- Many humans have been of use to us, in their time. And yet you desire this one's willing co-operation…and more." He turned his head for his sibling's response.

"She's not like any of the others."

Amiel stared at him intently. "Perhaps not. But be mindful. Mortals, they seem so fragile, and yet...you remember as well as I how terrible they can be as enemies. Rarely do they have our clarity of purpose, our perspective. And if you were to take her hand, make her like one of us and have her stand alongside you…consider this. This time could well be just like the last. Should I remind you of how disastrously _that_ ended?"

For a long moment, Karel did not react; then his eyes closed briefly in the resonance of some long-ago misery.

Watching him, Amiel's tone took on a hint of sadness, of sympathy, as he said; "Well. Which of us could have thought their kind could be so…captivating?"

Karel made no reply, and Amiel did not seem to expect one. He reached out to lay a hand against his brother's face, gently, the claws carefully turned away from the skin.

"She _is_ worthy of our cause. Be very wise in your dealings with her. My time is short, and soon you will be the leader of our people."

"I wish there were another way."

Amiel's voice became gentler still as he said, "You know there is not. We could spill oceans of mortal blood, and still it would not be enough. It is my place to make the sacrifice." His head lowered, and his eyes became solemn. "Our kindred must not be allowed to fade forever from this world," he whispered. "_Our_ world, Jehoiakim. Ours…"

He turned to look out over the city again. His claws gripped the stonework with all the strength that was left in him, and in an instant all trace of restraint fell away; his face drawing into tight, predatory lines, eyes narrowing into slanting strips of red, and he opened his mouth impossibly wide, the long eye-teeth gleaming whitely as he roared at the night.

In the lower levels of the fortress, guards turned towards the unearthly sound, wide-eyed, hands clenching on their weapons. Further away, dogs shook themselves, whimpering or growling, while children stirred and murmured uneasily in their sleep.

Beside him, Karel lifted his head, and there was an answering flare of red in the depths of his own eyes.

x x x

A little way inside the fortress, Lara shuddered at the sound that somehow seemed worse for being muffled by the walls. She waited. After a few minutes, both Nephilim came through the door.

Amiel stopped before her and stared down. No-one could have described the expression on his face as friendly, but his gaze was, at last, calm, free of malice and mistrust.

"Find the Seal for us," he said, and left, his taloned feet scraping against the flagged stone floor. And that, she thought, was as enthusiastic an expression of approval as she was likely to get from him.

She turned back to Karel. "Time to talk?"

Karel folded his arms. "En route," he said. "We've got work to do."

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**I can't believe it's been three months since I updated. I'm sorry, of course. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and thank you all for the reviews. Each and every one is appreciated. Here, have some angel-shaped Karel Kookies! Mmm, sprinkles…**


	12. Inferno

**Inferno**

The brightly coloured police tape had long gone, as had the roving policemen, their dogs, and the watchful, ill-fated reporter. The snow remained, shrouding ledges and rooftops, but the triple-tiered fountain was no longer frozen in silence; the layers of ice had given way to waters brimming over and spilling downwards, filling the square with their rushing chatter.

The ornate front door was chained and bolted, but Karel said, "Let's bypass the sewers this time," and snapped the heavy padlock with an easy turn of his wrist.

Inside, the sense of vacancy was palpable. The valuable items, the paintings and their gilded frames, were gone, taken away for auction in the absence of a living heir. Dust had settled on every surface, and the place was as silent as the tomb it had temporarily become. The owner had moved on for good.

"He was Lux Veritatis, wasn't he," said Lara quietly.

Karel's voice, even at low pitch, was resonant in the hush. "Yes."

"Then it's no coincidence that he lived so close to the Strahov - to the Vault…"

"His family helped build it. They were among the founders of the order..." And in her mind's eye, Lara saw again the submerged ring of statues and the names at their bases: Aicard, Limoux, Guihelm, Bogomil, DeCombel, Occitan, Montsegur…and Vasiley.

"…And among its last survivors."

She exhaled slowly as it dawned on her: "Kurtis...was the last?"

He inclined his head in assent.

She lowered her eyes. "He never told me," she said quietly. There hadn't been time for elaboration, just a hurried exchange of vital information, a makeshift alliance growing from a shared purpose: "We should work together." His face and voice suddenly softening into incredulity, almost childlike with wonder as he asked, "You're _trusting_ me?"...and for a time, she had.

"Regrets?" said Karel, lower still.

"Of course not," she said firmly.

He turned to her, expressionless. "I think you know better than that."

She breathed out, frustrated. "All right," she said. "Nothing material, then."

He considered her, motionless, his eyes unfathomable. Then his expression seemed to soften as he took her face in his hands. "They'll pass…Lara…" he said, and she found herself comforted by his certainty. "We'll purge them together someday, you and I..."

He held her stare. For a second she thought he would kiss her - or that she, greatly daring, would kiss _him_, and she had never been shy before, but he wasn't like any of the others - her pulse leapt at the notion, but the moment passed, and he released her and turned away, resuming his appraisal of their surroundings.

_When are we going to move things to the next level?_ she thought, followed by _Maybe Nephilim do things differently-_ and then, _Concentrate on the task in hand._ Hands on hips, she turned to look about her as well, steadying her breathing. For all that the place had been stripped of its treasures, they couldn't take away the tall mural on the far wall from where the grand masters of the past, believing their secrets safe, looked down with dignified disinterest on the intruders; or the rich seasonal colours set in a clockface beneath their feet.

She tapped her boot lightly against the polished floor. "I searched this part when I...when we...were last here."

Karel looked upwards. "If he had any information on the Seal, it would have been kept in his private rooms."

They went through the connecting door, through the office with its bare shelves and floorboards, and up into the living quarters. They were, fittingly for a descendant of Templars, monastically stark, as if in penance for the artistic decadence of the front room. Standing on the threshold of the large but minimally furnished bedroom, Lara had the sense that Vasiley had spent very little time here, as if he'd considered whatever personal life he'd had unimportant in comparison to his calling.

"You know what to look for," said Karel at her shoulder.

"Only the saleable items have been taken away," she said thoughtfully. "There are probably still quite a lot of interesting things lying around..."

"Lara."

"Yes?"

He laid both hands on her shoulders, the contact making her shiver even through layers of fabric. "Take only what we _need_."

"As if I-" she began in reflexive indignation, then stopped. She turned her head just enough to give him a ferocious scowl, which made him smile, and went on through the door.

She flicked the light switch a few times. Nothing, as she had expected. She pulled a torch out of her backpack and began opening drawers, hearing Karel's measured tread going up and up, into the attic.

She searched the room methodically. The wardrobe yielded nothing beyond old clothes, although she went through all the pockets for the sake of thoroughness. The bedside table, likewise, contained nothing useful once she had sorted through the multitude of trinkets, paintbrushes, pens, a cracked watchface, old postcards.

She shut the drawer and drummed her fingers against the mahogany, thinking. When she was a child and had wanted to hide things from her parents...

Kneeling, she lifted the edge of the mattress, felt around, and pulled her hand out. Nothing.

Lara leaned her head on her arm and sighed, wondering if she should pocket some of Vasiley's things after all, just to make the trip worthwhile. But viewing the room from that angle, she saw something she hadn't noticed before: scratches on the floor around the wardrobe, just visible in the faint moonlight that filtered through the room's small, high window.

She put her shoulder to the wardrobe and heaved it aside aside, grunting with the effort. As it moved, shuddering in protest, catching on the floorboards, something small and light fell down to land in the dust, but she ignored it, training her torch beam onto the revealed stone panel set into the wall.

The rough surface was thick with dust. Clipping the torch to her belt, she used both hands to clear it away, feeling her fingers slipping over a series of grooves. When she shone the light on it again, the beam picked out the engravings in their entirety and her lips silently formed the words: _Custodes orbis peniti viam scientiae indicant. _

"Do they," she murmured, raising a thoughtful eyebrow. "Well, that saves me from having to pull up all the floorboards." Her mouth tilted in a victorious smile.

Her eyes dropped to the object on the floor. At first it looked like another postcard, but as she bent down to pick it up she realised it was a photograph.

She read the scribbled note on the back - _To Mathias, with love from Konstantin and Marie_ - before turning it over.

A grouping of three men - no, two men and a boy, gathered on what looked like the pebbled foreshore of a great lake, sunlight glinting behind them on the out-of-focus water. She held it closer, fascinated. The serious-faced one with the light brown hair she took to be Vasiley himself. He had his arm loosely around the shoulder of a well-built man, a man with a square jaw, bristling auburn beard, and piercing eyes, who looked as if he would be terrifying in his anger. But his face in this photograph was mirthful, his hand resting in turn on the shoulder of the boy who was perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, dark haired and with eyes the colour of midsummer skies...

It wasn't exactly a thud that made her head jerk up, the photograph tumbling forgotten onto the floor, but more of a dull scraping noise. And it hadn't come from the attic above her, but from below. Straight away, she thought of the sewer entrance. She extinguished the torch beam and stood absolutely still, listening.

Her straining ears picked up the faintest of sounds, a click followed by the protracted groaning of wood, as though someone was easing open a door very slowly, trying not to be heard. Brown eyes narrowed dangerously.

Exiting the room, she glanced briefly at the stairs that led upward before going down again, moving cautiously, her footfalls muted. Vasiley's office was as empty as it had been before, but some nameless sense, the hairs prickling on the back of her neck, told her she wasn't alone.

She went on towards the front room, one gun raised in readiness, the cold metal of the barrel brushing the side of her face reassuringly.

With a quick, hard kick the door flew open. She was inside before it rebounded off the wall, turning quickly to scan every corner of the room, which was as empty as it had been before. Disbelieving, she lowered the gun, half-wondering if her imagination hadn't got the better of her after all.

Belatedly, it occurred to her that the noise she'd just made would instantly have let any intruder know her exact location; and now, she had an open door at her back. A swift, instinctive surge of fear rose in her stomach-

In the topmost room, Karel halted his search and turned his head abruptly, eyes glittering in the darkness.

Lara spun round. _They_ were standing in the doorway, silent and purposeful. She instantly recognised the nondescript black clothing. But this time, there were four of them.

_Too close!_ Reacting on the instant, she backflipped, twisting in midair, and ran for the stairs, desperate to gain some distance so she could get a clear shot.

She ducked behind the intermittent shelter of the intricate wrought ironwork, freed her other gun and unleashed a burst of fire, her face grim and merciless. One of them crumpled immediately in a widening pool of red. His companions spread out, moving swiftly to opposite sides of the room and returning her fire. Shells ricocheted off the swirling metal right in front of her face.

She backed up the stairs towards the balcony, one foot after the other, guns separated and spitting bullets alternately.

As she reached the top the man on the right reloaded and let loose a stream of bullets which forced her to drop and roll sideways. In the second it took her to regain her feet, the three of them had dashed forwards as one, underneath the mezzanine where she couldn't see or reach them.

Lara didn't hesitate. Holstering her guns, she jumped to grab hold of the wooden scaffolding, pulling herself up, and up again until she reached the third and highest stage. Just as she had done before, she ran and jumped the gap, landing neatly on the L-shaped platform opposite.

Her guns were drawn the instant her boots met wood, swinging to target the dark figures now visible from her new vantage point; there was nowhere they could hide now. Caught unawares, another one fell. Again, the remaining ones spread out, one making for the stairs while the other covered him. She knelt and returned fire.

Dimly, beyond the immediate noise of battle and her own racing pulse, she became aware of the sound of gunshots coming from the top of the house as well. _Joachim,_ she thought with a quick flash of concern, but with equal certainty that the Nephili could look after himself.

The leftmost figure fired several rounds into her platform. Gritting her teeth, she scrambled upright and flung herself forward, leaping for the chain as the wood splintered, giving way underneath her. Just in time, her hands closed over the cold ridges, but she lost one gun in the process, which went tumbling downwards along with the shattered remains of the platform.

The chain itself came free as its support cracked with the unaccustomed weight, and Lara found herself plunging floorwards as it ran to the end of its length with a metallic rattle. There was a tremendous jerk as it caught in the mechanism and came to a halt. Lara slid down several feet, barely retaining her hold on the loose end, her arm muscles screaming in protest.

One of the black suited figures was now on the balcony opposite, aiming his gun at her. There was no time to think, only to react. Bracing her feet against the wall, she swung out across the room, managing to lock her ankles around his neck and pull him off balance, so that he flipped forwards over the railing and slammed into the floor.

She released her grip on the chain and dropped to the floor in a catlike crouch, eyes blazing. The man at her feet made to lunge for his weapon, lying a few feet away, but her boot on his neck held him still while she put a bullet into his forehead.

That left one. She turned swiftly, bringing her gun up again, just in time to have it knocked from her hand by the man who had come up behind her. He had the advantage of weight and surprise; before she could move, fight, _think_, her legs were swept out from underneath her, her tailbone connecting with the hard floor, and the barrel of his gun yawned before her eyes, a dark pit leading all the way down to oblivion. Her pupils widened…but on the periphery of her vision, a faint greenish luminescence…

"_Enough_," said Karel from the doorway, his voice like the crack of a whip.

The man swung round to meet eyes that glittered like black suns in the branded face. Karel's lips drew back from his teeth in a horrible, unnatural manner and he snarled, the wolflike sound coming from deep in his chest.

Behind his mask, the man's eyes flickered in alarm as he struggled to understand what stood before him, but like a doomed animal caught in the headlight's glare, he was too transfixed to run for his life. It wouldn't have done him any good, anyway.

Lara took advantage of his horrified distraction, drawing up her legs to kick him hard in the kneecaps with both feet. He staggered, then turned back towards her, mouth contorting in anger, and raised his gun again, finger tightening on the trigger-

"ENOUGH!" roared Karel, this time in a voice that shook the room, and the man found himself enveloped by a writhing emerald inferno. The force knocked him off his feet, flipped him over lengthways. His shot went wide, shattering one of the windows in a spray of coloured glass. As he writhed and groaned, clutching at the parts of himself where the green vapour was searing his flesh, his gun was torn from his hand by a single gesture from Karel. It flew across the room and clattered to a rest against the skirting board.

Karel stepped forwards to stand over the would-be assassin, feet on either side of his scorched and bloodied head.

Sprawled on his back, he looked up in uncomprehending terror, reading his own death in the inhuman visage. He twisted to one side, trying to crawl away, but Karel leant down and seized him by the neck, dragging him upwards. The man's legs trailed helplessly down to the floor, his hands clawing uselessly at the pale fingers.

The curve of the staircase partially blocked Lara's view. She heard the man's desperate pleas, thick and gurgling through the constricting grip on his throat. Blood bubbled from his lips as he pleaded again, half-choking: "Please...I'll tell you everything…who sent me..."

Karel didn't reply. Despite his terror, or perhaps because of it, the man couldn't tear his eyes from the diabolic face above his, the viciously bared teeth, the eyes seething with the very fires of hell.

They stared at each other, Karel's grip tightening and tightening until the body spasmed, jerking uncontrollably in his hold. Then in one blurred movement he drove his fist straight into the man's chest. Lara heard the awful noises: the ribcage shattering, the hoarse screams. She flinched, but the wet sucking sound as Karel pulled his hand back out, gripping something that twitched in his fingers, was even worse.

Dark red blood ran in rivulets over the black leather of his glove. The man just had time to watch his own heart pulse once, twice more, before Karel wrenched his head savagely to one side with a splintering crack.

Hefting the body into the air, he flung it away from him. It slid brokenly down the wall and lay there, the eyes wide and staring in final agony, the neck twisted at a sickening angle. White slivers of ribs thrust up jaggedly through the gaping, bloody hole in the chest.

Karel turned away as if he had lost all interest the moment it was over, shaking droplets of blood from his gloves. He went over to Lara, bending down to lift her in his arms as if she were a child.

She stared up at him, awed, as the primal fury slowly left his face. "I'm all right," she said, standing freely, albeit with a grimace as her hand rubbed at her lower back.

He removed his gloves, touching her cheek gently. His eyes were blue again. She closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand.

"Did you…" she began, still absorbing the shock of what she had just witnessed. "-how did your search go?"

He merely shook his head. "Yours?"

She recited the phrase from the stone panel for him. "Guardians?" she asked softly.

With understanding in his eyes, he turned to look up at the mural behind them. Lara did likewise. The two men at opposite sides of the picture, one with a flowing grey beard, the other dark-haired and clean shaven, dwarfed the battling figures and the inferno beneath them, and were dwarfed in their turn by the elevated feminine figure under the great carved crescent.

Lara frowned, trying to make sense of the apparent array of symbolism. "What does it mean?"

"Many things," Karel answered softly, "but, for our purposes…" He raised a hand, which began to glow again; another streak of verdant fire lit the room, blazing a path towards the mural. When the vapour cleared, bits of coloured plaster raining down around them, a charred hole remained in the centre - and suddenly Lara understood - at a point equally distant from the carefully arranged hands of both men.

"Guardians," she said again, but not as a question this time, her head cocked as she considered the enigmatic painted faces. "Those two were thought to have had sympathies- affiliations -with certain secret religious groups, weren't they?" She shook her head. "I see that history didn't know the half of it…" She moved forward, eyes intent on the blackened hole.

"Let me," Karel said, but she was already hauling herself hand over hand up the dangling chain. Gripping it with her knees, she reached forward into the hollowed-out wall.

The book that came out in her hand was large, flat and bound in soft brown leather. Sliding back to the floor, turning the first page, she found herself looking at the only imprint Mathias Vasiley had left of himself on this earth. It was written in Czech, and she couldn't understand more than a few words. But the lines of writing spoke of strength of personality and a clear, incisive mind. For a fleeting moment she thought she would have liked to have known him.

Further in, the pages were a mass of symbols. Two familiar shapes leapt out at her, the downwards pointing arrow, and opposite, the six point star, surrounded by largely incomprehensible notes – her eyes lingered on the heavily underlined word _Damašek - _ Karel would know, of course.

He took the proffered book from her and tucked it into the folds of his long coat. "We're finished here," he said, voice tinged with a coldness that she knew wasn't meant for her.

He turned to glance back over his shoulder as they left, sparing a brief ironical smile for the images of Dante and Da Vinci. _Guardians_…y_our secrets are safe no longer._

They stepped out into the square, their shadows inky and sharp-edged. Lamplight glittered on the snow, a thousand tiny shards of light striking off the crisp surface, an earthbound mirror of the star-filled sky above them.

"That man…you never gave him a chance to tell you who-"

"I already know _who_," said Karel in a low growl. "Gunderson."

Lara's teeth clenched in anger, her hands tightening unconsciously into fists at her side. "What are we going to do about him?"

His eyes met hers. "What do you want to do?"

Her lips curled into a humourless smile. "Let's go and talk to him."

As they left the square,walking closely side by side, a light, fresh snow began to fall, a multitude of icy kisses covering her cheeks and brow.

Somewhere nearby, a bell tolled midnight. Slightly startled, Lara looked up, the deep joyous peals reminding her suddenly of the season. Hardly surprising that it had been the very last thing on her mind. G_oodwill to all men_... she thought with intended irony, thinking of the corpses behind her, and the ones that must lie ahead.

As the twelfth stroke sounded, the tall doors of the church they were passing creaked open and a small crowd of people spilled out onto the pavement, talking animatedly with bursts of laughter, exchanging greetings and farewells.

Karel gave them no more than a brief, indifferent glance, but Lara paused a moment, drawn and simultaneously repelled by the swirl of warmth and camaraderie.

She watched them a few moments longer, then turned away, following the Nephili through the silent, snowy streets.

* * *

**

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Merry Christmas, everyone. I hope you have a less violent time than Lara and Karel did :)**

**A few notes of explanation, since my writing appears to be succumbing to an almost Akkonian cryptic-ness: If you replay the Vasiley's level of AoD, you'll see the mural that features in this chapter. I barely noticed it first time round, I have to admit. Take a good look at it, it appears to be composed of elements from different, real-life paintings, and is chock full of symbolism that relates to the AoD story. The two men featured are not necessarily Dante and Da Vinci, but their appearances fit well enough, as do the themes of some of their works, and as Lara says, they both had (alleged) links to Lux Veritatis-esque societies like the Templars and Priory of Sion.**

**The Latin phrase Lara discovers means: _The guardians of the inner circle point the way to knowledge._**


	13. Lifeblood

**

* * *

**

Lifeblood

* * *

_"For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement..." _Leviticus 17:11

It was snowing in earnest by the time they reached the Strahov, the thickly descending flakes hindering Lara's view beyond a few feet, but she paid no attention, focused on what lay ahead. Neither she nor Karel spoke as they headed purposefully towards the inner areas, their thoughts joined by a cold resolution.

It was impossible to tell whether Gunderson was surprised by the summons. Nothing showed in his face, not even when he entered the dimly-lit room to see the two of them standing before him, implacably condemning, and behind them, lower down, one of his own men - the one who called him here - silent and still.

Gunderson gave the soldier a hard stare before returning his attention to Lara and Karel.The three of them faced each other in silence. Lara had to give the man credit for the fact that no fear was detectable in his demeanour, only a suggestion of contempt, his lip curling as his eyes met hers. Just as she had expected, he made no attempt to flee.

Then Karel said: "You betrayed me, Gunderson. And you tried to hurt _her_. And for what?"

Gunderson gave no reply. He, the master of tactics, wasn't sure himself what he had hoped for out of all this. He knew though that over the years he had become used to Eckhardt, developed a rare respect for him, despite his master's odd ways, obeying him implicity, never becoming too curious. In return, a generous salary; the perfect partnership. Or so he thought. Whatever strange sorcery the Alchemist may have used to bend him to his will, Gunderson was unaware of it. Karel, however, was not. He knew the answer to his own question.

"You were so efficient," said Karel. "And still he kept things from you."

"I think it's time to let him in on the secret," said Lara, watching Gunderson bristle at the implication of mistrust.

Unsure of what they meant, he frowned. But then a faint flash of light from behind them drew his gaze. The figure of the soldier was changing, growing leaner, taller, paler. And Gunderson finally saw, with his own eyes, just what he had helped bring here from Cappadocia, the hub of their entire operation, the thing he had been protecting but never allowed to see.

Mesmerised, he stepped forwards, Lara and Karel parting to let him past. The emaciated form was glowing with a faint phosphorescence, the sole bearer of light in that darkened chamber. The truck drivers had babbled in fear, _death in five tons of stone_, and at the time he had scoffed at their exaggerated superstitions.

Turning, Gunderson came face to face with a sight even more incredible. The man he knew as Joachim Karel changed also, into something less human; different to the creature in the pit, and yet he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were of the same kind. Lara, her eyes cold and vengeful, was scarcely less formidable. And Gunderson's face at last displayed his feelings: shock and appallment, emotions he thought he had left behind him long ago.

"Meister Eckhardt should never have trusted you," he said tightly.

Karel gave him a slight, knowing smile, and stepped aside to make room for Lara, who came up alongside him and raised her gun.

Marten Gunderson had expected to die a young man in the heat of combat, but when conflict followed conflict and he walked away from each one alive although not unscarred, he had chosen a mercenary's life. And as the years passed, had even dared to entertain hopes of old age and retirement, maybe grandchildren on his lap. Instead, he was going to disappear, just as many others had disappeared at his orders, or his own hands. He came close to smiling at the irony. Marina and the kids would never know what had happened to him, and that was probably for the best.

"So you're going to dispose of me," he rumbled. "Get on with it."

Lara sighted along the barrel, calculating the shot carefully. "_I'm_ not actually going to dispose of you-" She depressed the trigger, and he reeled backwards, his shoulder exploding in a spray of red. It hurt like hell, but he had taken worse before. He was still breathing, and that could mean only one thing - that the shot was meant to disable and not to kill. This struck him as deeply ominous.

Karel remained silent, watching.

"There's a little tradition you may have heard of..." Lara readied her gun again, aiming lower this time. "The last meal."

The creature waiting in the pit opened its mouth in a soundless snarl, showing just the tips of its long teeth.

Lara's gun discharged again, and this time the bullet impacted his leg, shattering the kneecap, causing him to stumble and collapse backwards, off the walkway and down into the pit.

"See you in hell, Gunderson," Lara said as he fell.

He could have been forgiven for thinking that he was there already. The creature approaching him with its strange, swaying gait, claws rasping on the floor, had eyes like the inferno, demon's eyes.

It leaned down to look at him, writhing and helpless, bringing that terrifying countenance close to his. His agony seemed to excite it. In all his years of war, he had seen the very worst face of mankind, but it couldn't compare to this face. It was all of his nightmares made manifest. Turning its long horned head from side to side, it appeared to examine him carefully, and then it spoke:

"Treacherous," hissed Amiel in a voice that sounded like the final judgment, and he opened his mouth wider, and wider still, white lips straining up over the sabre-like teeth.

Whatever power was left in the emaciated body, it was enough. Long, cruel fingers like knives embedding themselves in Gunderson's already damaged shoulder, a dreadful backwards pull, then his flesh tearing like paper. As he tried desperately to fend off the teeth and claws, which only resulted in the ruin of his hands, he remembered something and turned his head towards Lara.

"I wasn't the only one hiding secrets!" he shouted, the words distorted with pain.

She tossed her head. "What are you talking about?" she said coldly.

His voice came in guttural gasps, struggling through the blood rising in his throat. "Your former…playmate. The Lux Veritatis brat. He wasn't…all he seemed, either. There's a lot you don't…know, Miss Croft-"

Her brows knit, but it was too late.

She stepped to the edge of the pit, a fierce, cold pleasure on her face. Somewhere very deep inside herself, she was revolted by the whole scenario, but she knew, when she first took his hand, that this was the path she was choosing. And after all, she mused as she listened to the sound of bones cracking, the harsh yells, men had died at her hands for less than this.

She never looked away. At long last, the screams died away into a wet, bubbling sound.

Amiel stood erect, lips and teeth stained with crimson.

"It is time," he said.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then they lowered themselves down into the pit area, Lara preceding Karel, stepping uncaringly over the raw, red remains of Gunderson.

Semjaza's son walked past her with long, stately strides, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't acknowledge her at all, but he trailed a cold claw over her face in passing, and when she touched her own fingers to her forehead there was blood on them. A late baptism.

"I go to my father," he said lowly. She raised her eyes to his, and in the brief glance they shared, Lara saw the yawning abyss.

She pulled back, shuddering, suddenly cold.

Wide-eyed, she watched as Amiel halted before Karel, who reached out to him with an ungloved hand. Amiel returned the touch with infinite tenderness, the claws that had separated flesh from bone now moving with delicacy and care. "Jehoiakim, you are my brother, whom I love," Amiel whispered, too low for human ears. "Honor my name."

They drew closer, and Lara turned her face away. For several minutes they conversed in low tones.

Finally they fell quiet, their gazes twining in a long, silent farewell, before Amiel sank to a kneeling position, his blazing red eyes settling, as if hypnotised, onto the long sleek weapon in Joachim's hand. If he was afraid, he gave no outward sign.

Karel turned his head towards Lara. "Close your eyes."

She did, hardly knowing what to expect, but instinct sent her to the floor as well, in a defensive crouch.

She heard Karel take a step back and unsheathe the Blade with a metallic scrape. There was a long moment of silence - he had hesitated - so long that Lara was about to open her eyes and question him. Before she could, she heard Amiel hiss sharply in an agony of anticipation. And then a fleshy _thud_, and an immediate blast of white hot light and power that sent her sprawling onto her side while the scream tore at her ears. But scream wasn't the right word-it was a more terrible sound, somewhere between a wrathful roar and an anguished howl, and it went on and on, accompanied by the outpouring of energy.

Lara tucked her head down against her chest and jammed her fingers into her ears. It didn't shut out the sound completely, but it did prevent her eardrums from rupturing.

When the awful noise abated she removed her fingers and shook her head hard to ease the ringing in her ears. She had to blink several times to clear her vision which swam with the afterimage of white fire. Karel was on the other side of the chamber with his back to her, head bowed, utterly still, a hand to his chest as if in pain.

She stopped by his side. Slowly, he turned his face to her, the black eyes blank and desolate, and she put her hand on his shoulder and dropped to one knee beside him, laying her cheek against his temple. His skin was icy.

Instinctively she knew not to offer comfort with words. They stayed like that for some time, each feeling the slow in and out of the other's breathing.

When they finally stood, he opened his fingers, holding something out to her. She took it from him slowly. A glass vial, stoppered, three-quarters full of a viscous greenish-grey substance.

Looking at Amiel's blood as it hissed and surged in its glass confines, she saw their end in sight for the first time. And wondered, for the first time, what the other Nephilim, sleeping as yet, would make of her. She brushed fingertips over her bloodied forehead again.

She looked around her at the cold ridged walls, the dark vaulted ceiling, and found herself suddenly hating the place. "We're finished here?"

He nodded, never taking his eyes from hers.

x x x

Lara stood on the threshold, filling her lungs with the cold, clean air. "This time tomorrow we'll be back in Paris," she murmured, frowning, not looking forward to it. He regarded her gravely, and her spirits lifted slightly at his next words.

"Come and stay in my home," he said to her. "You'd like it."

Her eyebrows rose humorously. "Is that an invitation, or an order?"

"An invitation, Lara. Of course."

She just nodded. He didn't return her smile, but his expression lightened minutely.

She stepped out of the Strahov fortress for- thank God- the final time, deeply glad to see the last of the place. Wordlessly, slightly tentative, she held out her hand to Karel. Wordlessly, he took it, and they started walking.

Behind them, emerald flames rose high into the winter night.

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**Disclaimer: No Gundersons were harmed in the writing of this chapter. The one that got shot and then eaten was a stunt double. The real one was whisked away to a better life in Germany where he and his lady wife run a market stall selling hand-painted rubber ducks.**

**Reviewwww...please:)**


	14. Home

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**Home**

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The Boeing's powerful engines sighed, turned, roared into life, their reverberation transmitting through the fuselage. As the plane moved downthe runway, gathering speed, Lara adjusted her seat and sat back, lowering her gaze to the book in her hands.

The plane's momentum became a hurtling rush, the long low buildings and smaller aircraft streaking past in a blur. A seasoned traveller, Lara barely glanced up as the nose lifted, concrete and grass dropping away beneath them. Outwardly she was calm, her face unreadable, but her tension and impatience sang out to Joachim, who turned his head to watch her.

His companion's eyes were a clear, restless sepia in the sunlight that filtered through the small windows with the distinct mellow tone of late afternoon, warm and flattering - not that she had need of that. Her skin was luminous, her mouth a perfect, stubborn Cupid's bow.

She was unlike that other one before her, who alone of all the Children of Israel had awakened his desire, stealing his heart with a single glance of her eyes, and who, desiring him in return, had left her people and her father's household to go with him into the land between the two great rivers. Her face was distant in time, but, until recently, near in his memories, a yearning that the slow passage of centuries had done nothing to diminish; her wide wondering eyes, the dusky pink of her mouth, the touch of her cool hand on his burning skin, her dark hair tumbling onto his chest, her soft sighs as they came together in the stillness of the desert night, then the sweet plaintive sound of her voice as she begged him to let her stay with him forever, to grant her endless life in his embrace. And the consequence: the vivid crimson of her life's blood as it spilled out over his hands to redden the burning sands of Shin'ar.

Disastrous. Although she had been sweet where Lara was strong, trusting where she was wary, gentle and not a fierce fighter; yes, unalike. But their eyes were the same living brown. A faint smile curved his mouth.

Those eyes were concentrating on the pages of Vasiley's diary, overlain with the translation he had written for her. It was all there, laid out before her, the history of the Seal of Solomon, and - her hands clenched around the battered leather - its last known location in the tomb of their very first Grand Master. Buried deep, of course. _What else did you expect?_ she asked herself, her mouth twisting resentfully.

She put the diary aside and dozed for the rest of the short flight, aware of Karel's watchful presence beside her.

As the plane taxied to a halt, she looked out appraisingly at the twinkling lights of Paris. There was the usual sorting of hand luggage, a flurry of farewells from the smiling stewardesses, and then it was out of the plane's brightly lit warmth and into the relentless cold and damp. Lara stepped onto the tarmac with a heavy sigh.

"Joachim, I'm so sick of this place," she said.

"We don't have to stay here forever, Lara," he said, turning to her with a slight smile.

She shrugged dispiritedly.

Paris, City of Light. As they came through the arrival gate, she was almost blinded by it; a sudden array of dazzling camera flashes and a raucous chorus of shouted questions. Lara's face darkened; she despised the press, a pack of ravening wolves eager to tear at the flesh of the latest scandal. The last one who had managed to bypass her security system and sneak into the grounds of Croft Manor had ended up sprinting back down the drive with bullets sending up sprays of gravel around his fleeing feet.

Karel walked through them as though they didn't exist. Lara had no such luxury.

"Get out of my way," she snapped as yet another paparazzo jumped in front of her with a camera.

The man ignored her and kept taking pictures, until Karel stepped in front of him and put his hand over the camera. His fingers tightened minutely on the lens rim, and it started to buckle under the pressure.

The journalist stared in outraged astonishment. Examining his camera indignantly, he started to protest, but a quick glance into Karel's eyes made him close his mouth and back off, shaking his head rapidly.

x x x

He was right; she did like his home, and its surroundings. The seventh _arrondissment_ in its cultured cosmopolitan flair could not have been a sharper contrast to the ghetto she had roamed previously; wide tree-lined boulevards instead of narrow littered streets, swirls of animated, multilingual passers by instead of lurking ladies of the night, and in place of seedy nightclubs, vibrant cafes and bistros, their life and colour spilling out onto the pavements in the deepening dusk.

And so she found herself back among the rooftops of Paris, but this time on the penthouse level of an elegant fin-de-siecle stone building,and without a gendarme in sight.

Shrugging her backpack from her shoulders, she stepped forward onto pale wood and looked around her with keen interest. She had half expected a period style and an accumulation of treasures to rival, no, dwarf, her own, but the apartment, all light and open spaces, was almost entirely devoid of possessions. He did not trouble to surround himself with material mementos; they meant little to him, and besides, he remembered everything. Every age, every face.

But despite the minimalism, his living space was far more than functional. Sleek flowing lines, muted colours in masterful arrangement, the light falling through the glassed roof, all contributing to the spare, tranquil beauty of some eastern temple. Engraved stone tablets, set here and there into shallow alcoves, were the apartment's only pretension to decoration, but it was, in itself, a work of art.

Above her, a mezzanine housed a low, wide bed and steps leading up to a roof terrace.

From the windows that spanned the far wall she could see the placid curve of the Seine with the illuminated, glass-topped boats, the _bateaux Parisien_, going serenely to and fro, and the imperious rise of the Eiffel Tower above the roads and rooftops in the near distance. As high up as they were, the building set back from the road, the city's many voices were muffled, drifting upwards in a dreamy blend of sounds. The place was a haven, somewhere you could watch the world while remaining detached from it.

Her own face, briefly at peace, stared back at her from the immaculate glass.

Lara shifted position for what felt like the hundredth time, kicking back the purple covers to let the air cool her skin.

She had never been in court before, despite a string of legally dubious activities. You couldn't be charged if you weren't caught, and if she had frequently failed at staying within the boundaries of the law, she had excelled at not being there to be apprehended afterwards. For someone who valued her privacy as much as she did, a trial and the attendant publicity were an unwelcome ordeal. Unlike most obstacles in her path, a judge and jury could not be dispatched with firepower, nor even wit and cunning - at least not her own. She would have to depend on Karel.

He was nowhere to be seen. With his usual courtesy, he had made sure that she had everything she wanted. Earlier, he had invited her to walk through the city with him, and when she had snapped at him and told him that preparing for tomorrow was more important, he had gone back to his study and closed the door, and she had lain awake in his bed, seething with tension and wanting, wondering if he would join her. She would have welcomed him.

The thought stirred her restive imagination, and as she waited in vain for drowsiness to overtake her she found her mind filled with the kinds of images that banished any likelihood of sleep. The darkness seemed to close in around her like a whirlpool, and her hands slid restlessly over the heated contours of her own body.

After half an hour she flung aside the covers and rose, cheeks flushed, pupils wide and dark, to descend into the sunken living area, welcoming the drift of cool air against her bare arms and legs. The roof that sloped down from the mezzanine was composed almost entirely of parallel slanted skylights through which she could see the night sky.

She made her way around the perimeter, treading lightly, passing in and out of the moonbeams that streamed through to pool on the wood floor; her face now in shadow, now bathed in pure silvery light as she passed the shallow alcoves, glancing at each engraving in turn. They told her a story in pictures, a very old story, perhaps the oldest of all.

Perfect innocence, then the first awakening of desire...and rebellion, expulsion and despair. She recognised the fallen angel Semjaza, standing erect with wings spread wide and hands stretching up to as if to seize the heavens; and in the next tablet his son Amiel, lord of his people - whom she knew only by his expression - tall and strong and proud. Looking at his likeness, she could hardly believe the blazing fire in those eyes had been put out forever.

Other images followed, other fallen ones and their demigod children, Anak and Rapha and Avera, battles, veneration, betrayals, and finally the retreat to Anatolia, where they slept in peace for millennia until the coming of the Lux Veritatis.

When she came to the last alcove, she paused and stepped in for a closer look, laying a hand on the smooth stone tablet.

Like the others, it was carved in relief and painted over with subtle flares of colour. The stone may have been cold, but the being in the forefront of the engraving was fiery, sinisterly beautiful, with reddish skin and a fierce, finely-drawn face, half-turned, broodingly, to the girl embracing him from behind. He had no clothes on whatsoever, but she was dressed soberly, with a long loose head covering that threw her face into partial shadow and could not quite obscure her look of longing sorrow.

He had tall, pointed crimson wings like flames, and the same swirling markings...the same swirling skin markings as his son, Jehoiakim.

"Sariel," she said aloud, and turned slowly to meet Karel's stare. The unrelenting black of his eyes revealed little, or nothing.

She sighed, her head dropping a little. "Didn't mean it," she muttered, sounding sulky and childish to herself.

He came closer, raised a hand to touch her cheek. "I know," he said with a calm certainty that made her lift her face and scowl at him.

She turned back to the engraving. "What was he like?"

He was silent for so long that she turned a frowning face to him. "Did you even know him?"

"Barely," he said. "One night, one day..." He had been magnificent and degenerate, beautiful and frightening, godlike, his eyes ablaze and his voice like hissing flame.

She moved her hand, brushing fingertips over the woman's face. "Your mother…"

She didn't expect a response to that, so it came as no surprise when she didn't get one. But before turning away, he reached out a hand to the carving as well, drawing a forefinger over Dinah's sorrowing face.

She sat on the couch, turning sideways to the long windows to contemplate the vista, and he came over to sit next to her, unexpectedly close. Her back was turned to him, her hands drawn into tight fists.

"Tomorrow. Are we ready?"

"We're ready, Lara."

"I prefer to fight my own battles, you know," she said with a quick fierceness, eyes blazing.

He was unmoved by her aggression. "I know _that_, as well." He reached forward and took her hand, sliding his fingers through hers. She tensed for the quickest of moments, then leaned back against him.

His hands closed over the bare flesh of her upper arms. And just like that, a thrill of arousal leapt through her like electric current.

She slid closer to him, turning half round to raise a hand to his lips. His eyes closed for a moment as he tasted the tang of her flesh; then she felt his mouth curving into a sly smile beneath her fingertips.

And then his fingers were trailing enticingly over her arms, the exposed skin of her neck, the ridge of her collarbone, sliding over her warm skin, leaving a trail of tingling pleasure in their wake, touching her in all the right ways, all the right places, until she gave in, her breath sighing from between parted lips, her eyes shuttering closed in response. The loss of vision only served to enhance her other senses, the scent of him and his touch flooding her brain…and she couldn't take any more. She twisted around and upwards, her hands on his shoulders, her mouth seeking his, and he…he drew back, barely maintaining the distance, leaving her breathless and longing for more.

Bewildered, frustrated, she stared into his face from mere inches away. "Joachim-"

"Not yet, Lara." This time, his fingers on _her_ lips, silencing her. His eyes repeated: _Not yet_…and said nothing more than that. Staring into the unbroken black, she knew that she couldn't determine his thoughts if he did not want them to be determined. She knew also that the reverse was untrue. He had been around a lot longer than she.

Distantly, through the haze of lust, it occurred to her that she was, once again, dancing to his tune, that the agenda was his entirely; and beyond the fleeting chagrin, the brief impulse to smack him in the face, the worst part of it all was: she didn't care.

It didn't use to be that way. It had all begun, of course, the moment that pyramid collapsed on top of her with a roar; no, before that. _I make my own luck_, she had once proudly declared to a friend, in another life. And, as if some higher power had overheard and taken her hubris as a challenge, since that time it seemed that Lara Croft's course had been directed by everything, everyone, except Lara Croft. Circumstance, sleight of hand, twist of fate. Shamans, mentors, alchemists, enemy and friend alike - and Nephilim. Control and self-determination, they were mere dancing illusions, to be ruthlessly dispelled by the Perhaps they always had been, and she just didn't know it until now.

With a faint, dismal groan, she pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

He stroked her hair consolingly, narrowed eyes showing a hint of satisfaction. Eventually, with a dragging reluctance that dismayed her, she left him, and went back to the bed, footsteps resentful and heavy.

He sat alone, pensive, eyes dark and still. His blood had begun to heat from within, but he had learned patience, and learned it well. Try to snatch the thing you most desire, and it is likely to slip out from under your fingers. Wait until the time is right and it will come to you of its own accord. Sometimes, it will throw itself at your feet and beg to be taken. He had waited a thousand years; he could wait a little longer.

He stayed where he was, listening to the uneven sound of her breathing. Finally, it became deep and regular, and she slept.

* * *

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**Hee hee hee! Your comments, please?As usual, I owe a **_**big**_** thank you to all those who leave reviews. It makes my day.**

**I should also thank Akkon for (unknowingly) contributing artistic inspiration for this chapter. If you want to see her wonderful Nephilic drawings, check them out over at the Sanitarium (KTEB HQ).**

**A few people have enquired about my other TR fics. The truth is my head's so full of this one right now that I couldn't write anything else if I tried (and I have), but I haven't forgotten them. They'll be continued eventually. **


	15. Justice

J**ustice**

Day One

"...Dr. Kristina Boaz, Dr. Grant Muller, Tomas Luddick, Josef Cerny, Milos Jelinek..."

Lara sat perfectly still, listening in stony silence to the impressive list of the dead. Many of the names were familiar to her, but many more were not - all those policemen and security guards - and it was with a quick flash of resentment that she heard them read aloud, since she had long since relegated them, nameless and faceless, to that convenient corner of her mind where dozens more like them lurked, having been assigned by her the status of "neutralised threat." Given a goal of any kind, she experienced a kind of tunnel vision, her focus narrowing and narrowing until she could only see her objective, and everything between her and it - pain, danger, people – became no more than obstacles to be overcome. Or eliminated.

"... Daniel Rennes, Margot Carvier, Professor Werner Von Croy."

A good number of those corpses were _not_ her responsibility, though. As the list came to an end and Werner's name was read out, she didn't miss the irony that his actual killer was the man sitting straight-backed and impassive just in front of her, so completely at home in the sober, polished surroundings of the _Cour d'assises_ that she could almost forget what he really was.

She herself was a long way from feeling at home. Even the layout of the court was unfamiliar to her; not one, but three judges - two _assesseurs_ and a President - the nine jurors divided to each side of them, a long crescent of serious faces, all preparing to pass judgment on her. Searching those faces for understanding, some sign of sympathy, she found none.

As a formality, a court-appointed interpretor sat nearby, but Lara doubted she would have to call on the woman's services. No doubt her father would be pleased to know that that expensive Swiss education hadn't been entirely wasted on her after all.

The district prosecutor, a solidly-built middle-aged man with sharp features and thinning black hair, sat opposite them, eyeing her much as a cat considers a mouse; earlier, as they were waiting to be called into the courtroom, Lara standing tensely between her guards, he had arrived, briefcase in hand, and exchanged the briefest of nods with Karel.

"We've got plenty on her," she had heard him say, _sotto voce_, and then even more quietly, "No use asking you to deal, I suppose?" She had scowled indignantly, but Karel, looking calmly straight ahead, had replied "None whatsoever", and the other man had shrugged in a just-as-I-expected manner.

The presiding Judge, her face solemn and unrevealing, pounded once, twice on the wood before her, and as the courtroom fell silent, began to speak.

"In almost three decades service I have never seen a case quite as bloody and bizarre as this one. Nevertheless, our duty remains the same; to seek the truth and to see that justice is served."

"Would counsel please identify themselves for the jury."

"Michel Lenoir, Public Prosecutor," said the prosecutor, standing.

Karel rose to his feet too, striking amongst the mostly dark-haired _Francais_. "Joachim Karel, for the defense."

"Thank you, gentlemen." Directing her gaze to the jurors on each side of her, the Judge added, "I would remind the jury that they must not allow themselves to be influenced by the high public profile of the accused or the case. We do not allow the media to decide guilt. Let us begin."

An imperious nod, and that was that. Apparently this judge wasn't one for lengthy speeches, which suited Lara very well, but that didn't reduce the excessive wordiness of the jurors' swearing in, during which her attention, unlike Joachim's, wandered, her eyes running vaguely over the oak panelling, the heavy oil paintings, the small windows encircling the upper walls. The courtroom, it seemed to her, was a temple in which the sacred, impersonal rituals of justice would be enacted, the trial proceeding in solemn order as if it were a service; the long wooden benches just like pews with their solemn, attentive occupants, the formalised phrases like a liturgy, the magistrates and advocates priestly in their sombre, white-collared vestments. This was Karel's world, and she had come into it as a supplicant, seeking absolution…

...or, perhaps, she thought, glancing at the prosecutor, a sacrificial lamb.

"You swear and promise to examine with the most scrupulous attention the charges which will be brought against Lara Croft…"

Hearing her own name brought her back with an unpleasant jolt-

"…to decide according to the charges and defense arguments following your conscience and your innermost conviction…"

There it was, just as he had warned her; although she was, in the great democratic tradition, presumed innocent, there was no notion of "beyond reasonable doubt" in a French courtroom, no room for complacency. Let judges and jury be subjectively convinced by the evidence against her, and she would be found guilty. And the evidence against her was plentiful.

The Judge was speaking again, inviting the court and Lara herself to listen attentively as the clerk read out the referring judgment.

The good news was that the evidence also implicated Eckhardt - as it must have done many times before, but then, he had always had a very good lawyer.

Pieter van Eckhardt: the leader, according to the _prefecture de police_, of the "international cult-like group using the Strahov fortress as their base, and lately concerned with obtaining five medieval works of art for use in an alchemic ritual." Lara had to fight to keep her face as neutral as Karel's when the clerk pronounced that Eckhardt himself could not be traced despite an ongoing search. Before going missing, the clerk continued in his precise voice, "he apparently destroyed his own headquarters by setting it alight, but enough evidence has been gleaned from the burned remains to satisfy the police that he was, at the least, the instigator of many of these killings."

And then came the long list of those who could offer no testimony, who would never speak again; and added to that, a string of lesser transgressions - breaking and entering, trespassing, evading arrest, carrying weapons, entering a country illegally; all her sins remembered at once.

"…But," the presiding Judge was saying now, summarising the bad news, "it is equally clear that van Eckhardt did not commit all of these murders personally. Therefore, _mesdames, messieurs_, our remit is to determine the exact role of the accused in this affair, in the light of the evidence uncovered in the investigation."

"Miss Croft, will you please take the witness stand," came the authoritative voice, and she rose, and took her place behind the elegant semi-circular wooden balustrade, facing the Judge herself.

Name, age and place of birth; the Judge went through the initial formalities with practised speed. "Miss Croft, what was your reason for being in Paris on the night of December the fifteenth?"

"I came here to see Werner Von Croy."

"And what was your relationship to Professor Von Croy?"

"I was his student and friend, and also his rival in the field of archaeology."

"His rival," repeated the Judge, and Lara felt the prosecutor's hungry gaze. "And how you did you feel about Professor Von Croy, personally?"

"He was-" she began, and glancing briefly to her right, caught Karel's eye. "Our relationship was...complicated," she said, more quietly. No point in their trying to hide things the court would already know, all she could do was to put the best possible spin on it. "We had many differences. But I respected him; he taught me most of what I know, and I did not want him dead."

"Yet you were seen by police leaving his apartment only minutes after the time of his death. What is your explanation for that?"

"He was killed while I was there. The killer – Eckhardt - pushed me aside, I hit my head…and at first I couldn't remember what had happened. All I knew was that when I was myself again-" Lara took care to lower her voice and her eyes "-Werner was dead."

The Judge's face remained absolutely stoical as she followed Lara's testimony in the file in front of her, but the jury were less practised at not showing their opinion, and disbelief was evident on several of their faces.

"Please explain to the court why you ran from the police when they arrived on the crime scene, Miss Croft," said the Judge, looking up from her notes with a piercing, expectant gaze.

Why indeed. "I was afraid," she said, keeping her voice even. "I was disorientated. I didn't know what had happened, only that Werner was dead, there was blood everywhere, and there were men with attack dogs pointing guns at me."

"I see," said the Judge. "And what do you have to tell us regarding the other murders of which you stand accused?"

Lara paused a moment. "The other Monstrum murders I had nothing to do with, except that I was following the Monstrum's trail, and I came across many of his crime scenes."

"So it says in your statement….and this is your explanation for the presence of your DNA at those crime scenes?"

"Yes."

"So you are saying that you took it upon yourself to hunt a serial killer? How extraordinary."

"I realised I had been framed for Werner's murder. I couldn't see any other way of clearing my name."

"I see. Miss Croft, you have not denied being responsible for some of the assaults on police and security personnel in this city and in Prague on December the 17th..."

"In Prague the police shot at me on sight. I was defending myself. In Paris…I believed my only chance of proving my innocence was to remain free and find the Obscura Paintings that Werner was killed for."

"Yes…the Paintings." The Judge turned pages in the file. She made some brief notes, and then looked up again. "Would counsel like to suggest any supplementary questions?" she said, glancing at Lenoir, then at Karel.

"Madame," said the prosecutor quickly, rising to his feet. "May I approach the accused directly?"

A frown creased the Judge's brow and she turned to confer with her colleagues on each side. After some seconds of earnest talk in low voices, she nodded her permission.

Karel did not move an inch, but his narrow gaze followed Lenoir as he came to stand a few feet in front of Lara.

The prosecutor began politely enough, with a courteous dip of his head that did nothing to dispel Lara's wary unease. He was playing a role every bit as much as she. "Miss Croft. You said you and the late Professor Von Croy were rivals. Could you expand on that, please?"

"We often competed with each other over archaeological finds."

"And did this...competition…ever become physically violent?"

"No. It did not." A lie, but why should she have scruples over that of all things?

"You said that immediately after Professor von Croy's murder you were disorientated, that you didn't know what had happened. Can we take this to mean that you didn't know who was responsible for killing him?"

"At that point, I had no idea."

"You've stated that you later recalled Pieter van Eckhardt as the murderer. Do you stand by that statement?"

"Of course I do."

He nodded. "But before this, ahem, fortunate recollection, did you consider at any point that you yourself might have been responsible?"

"No," she said strongly.

"You're absolutely certain that it never crossed your mind? Not even for a moment?"

It had crossed her mind, but to say so would amount to describing herself as a potential murderer. _No, you're not going to get me that easily…_

"Werner and I had our differences, but I could never have taken his life."

Half-turning away from her, he assumed an expression of polite disbelief that she suspected was mainly for the benefit of the jury.

"Records show that you have never been charged with a criminal offence before, Miss Croft. Is that correct?"

"That's correct."

"But rumours have persisted surrounding your career, haven't they? Objects going missing from archaeological sites, rival treasure-hunters turning up dead-"

"Objection." Karel's voice, deep and clear, rose above his. "Your Honor, this is nothing more than the repeating of speculation bordering on slander."

"Mr. Lenoir," the Judge spoke. "Please stick strictly to the facts in my courtroom."

The prosecutor, unabashed, acknowledged this with a nod. He looked shrewdly at Lara, and she knew before he spoke that he would only find an angle of attack more acceptable to the Judge.

"In the course of your archaeological expeditions, Miss Croft, have you ever needed to...defend yourself?"

She turned, frowning, to Karel; at the Judge's permissive gesture, he came over to the stand, close beside her. "Is there a French version of the fifth amendment?" she hissed into his ear.

He returned quietly, "They can't make you answer, Lara, but if you don't they'll assume the worse."

He returned to his seat. Collecting herself, she looked the man in the eye, then deliberately moved her gaze upwards to the judges and jury. "People shouldn't have to get hurt for the things I search for," she said, calmly, clearly. "But I work in a dangerous profession, and at times I have been attacked. All civilised nations make allowance for that." She put a careful amount of stress on _civilised_, enough to make her point, not enough to insult.

Lenoir was relentless. "So that's a yes, then."

"Yes," she acknowledged, trying hard not to speak through gritted teeth.

"And according to your own statement, you seem to have needed to 'defend yourself' - sometimes using lethal force - quite frequently in the past few weeks, Miss Croft. Did you ever feel the need to defend yourself in any way against Professor Von Croy?"

"No," she said firmly. "He never tried to hurt me. He enjoyed the competition too much."

"And did you enjoy this…competition? You never felt threatened by it…by him?"

"At his age? He couldn't move fast enough to be a threat to _me_," she said archly, and saw a few amused faces around the room.

Lenoir's wasn't one of them. "Remind us again why you were seeking the Obscura Paintings so fervently, Miss Croft?"

Lara clamped down hard on the angry impatience that threatened to break into her voice. "They were the only lead I had. I thought that if I could find them, they would lead me to the real killer."

"They didn't appeal to you as...prizes, perhaps? Say, a final opportunity to best Von Croy?"

Unique, legendary, they were just the kind of thing she might have sought back in that other life, where adventures always ended in a triumphant homecoming with a new trophy and not shattered and bleeding in the blackness, every breath a costly victory. The search for the Paintings had not been an adventure at all; it had been a desperate scramble to save herself.

"I don't collect artefacts any more," she said quietly.

"Really. Well, even if the Paintings weren't your idea of a collector's item, we know for sure that someone else prized them very highly, don't we?" He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Eckhardt," she said darkly, and low.

"Indeed. You have been known to uncover artefacts on commission, haven't you Miss Croft?"

"From time to time, yes."

He nodded. A pause.

"I take it that you have read the case file, that you have familiarised yourself with the essentials of the case against you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then you are aware that there is eyewitness as well as forensic evidence linking you to Eckhardt and his group, via their known associate Louis Bouchard?"

"Linking me?" she said, more sharply than was wise. "I contacted Bouchard because- "

"Yes or no, please, Miss Croft."

"Yes, but I-"

"_Thank_ you. And you must also be aware that there is CCTV footage of you entering the Strahov Fortress - Eckhardt's base of operations, that is. But you didn't have to break in, did you? Tell us, how _did_ you gain entrance to the fortress, as heavily guarded as it was?"

She stared at him, disbelieving. "Are you suggesting that I was working for Eckhardt?"

"At this point, Miss Croft, I am not suggesting anything, only asking you a question."

She gripped the wood tightly, wondering why the hell Karel didn't object. "I used a pass code."

"And where did you get this code?"

"Luddick gave it to me."

"Where would a lowly, a _discredited_, reporter like Tomas Luddick get hold of such closely guarded information?"

"I don't know. He never told me, he just said he had contacts."

"A very vague account," said Lenoir, as if she needed confirmation of how unconvincing she was sounding. She risked a quick, sidelong glance at Karel; he was leaning forward, eyes keen, watching Lenoir with the same expression the prosecutor had watched _her_ with earlier.

"I've told you why I wanted the Paintings. Eckhardt was a madman. He was the last person I would want to have them."

"Ah," said the prosecutor lightly, managing once more to convey total scepticism. Lara hoped that the jury were not highly impressionable.

"You've stated that you went on the run because you wanted to clear your name. But even in France we have investigating authorities, Miss Croft. Wouldn't it have been better to let the police take care of the matter, rather than become a fugitive?"

"I didn't think they would believe my account."

"You didn't think they were competent to determine the truth?"

"Objection," snapped Karel at last. "My client's opinions regarding police procedure are not on trial here."

"On the contrary," said Lenoir, turning to the bench. "Miss Croft's notions of what constitutes _justice_ are highly relevant to this matter."

"Objection overruled. Miss Croft, you will answer the question."

She was silent, having an overwhelming sense of having been manoeuvered into a corner.

"Shall I repeat the question for you?" said Lenoir, whose eyes were fixed on her face.

"No. Thank you. It wasn't a question of anybody's competence. It was a question of a lack of evidence, evidence I wanted to find before I was put behind bars."

Stepping closer, the prosecutor made eye contact. "Isn't it true that you really went on the run because you knew there _was_ no direct evidence to exonerate you…in short, because you were guilty?"

She took a deep, calming breath, remembered what Karel had told her: when under pressure, don't hesitate too much, be confident but not defiant, don't get angry. "No, that's not true."

His expression was one of amused cynicism. "Well," he said softly, speculatively. "That will be for the court and jury to decide." He turned his back on her, suddenly businesslike. "No further questions, your Honor."

* * *


	16. Advocate

**Advocate**

"Thank you, Mr. Lenoir. Mr. Karel," the Judge turned to him with a lift of an eyebrow. "You may also question your client directly, if you wish…"

"Not at present, Your Honor," he said, to Lara's surprise.

"In that case, I am calling our first witness to the stand. Miss Croft, you may return to your seat. Please ask Commissioner Mirepoix to come into the courtroom-" -this to one of the ushers, who bowed his head and left quickly. When he returned, he was accompanied by another man.

Far from the stolid veteran Lara had pictured, Mirepoix was lean and surprisingly young, but all the same there was something intense and hound-like about his manner if not his appearance, this man at whose direction the Parisian police had dogged her footsteps. His face was keen and serious under feathered light brown hair.

As he took the stand he turned his head, and their eyes met, briefly. His were dark and watchful, but there was no hostility in them; instead, a mixture of wariness and restrained curiosity.

Mirepoix disliked being in court. He was reserved and somewhat shy, an unlikely man for the job were it not for an uncanny (spooky, his colleagues called it, the Catholics among them half-jokingly crossing themselves as he passed) awareness of violence in others. It sang out to him in a series of fractured, dissonant phrasings, no matter how tightly restrained, no matter how carefully concealed under layers of civilisation.

His co-workers sometimes asked where he got his talent from, if there were any other 'psychics' in his family. He couldn't say, since he had never known them; his parents had died when he was only four months old. Only years later did he find out that they had actually been murdered, the details of the crime scanty, the killer never caught.

He had not decided there and then to follow a career in crime solving, nor was it the only factor in his eventual decision, but the thought of the mother and father, the life, lost to him had stayed with him all that time, stronger than ever before during this most recent case. It felt _right_ to be chasing the Monstrum, fighting this darkness, as if fate, denied in the first instance, had simply found another way, years later.

As for the power, it was a gift, and that was enough. He rarely stopped to wonder where it came from.

The woman in the dock unsettled him. As he met her gaze, he could feel it, the danger; it was there in her, without a doubt, but not the type of violence _they_ were talking about, the type that tears out entrails and makes art from them. But he could hardly offer that as testimony. All that remained was for him to answer the court's questions and leave justice up to them.

Lara was utterly unaware of all of this, but Karel turned his head slowly, and the weight of his stare left Lenoir and settled on Mirepoix instead.

"Your surname, Christian names, age and profession, please."

"Mirepoix, Samuel, thirty eight years, Commissioner with the Special Crimes Investigation Force, Interpol."

"Thank you. Commissioner, would you please summarise your role in this case for us."

"I am assigned to liase with the _prefecture de police_ regarding the 'Monstrum' murders."

"Thank you. When was Miss Croft first considered a suspect?"

"On the night of his murder, Professor Von Croy's neighbours in the Chantell building called the police upon hearing gunfire. When they arrived, they saw Miss Croft fleeing the scene. It wasn't hard to identify her, as she's very well known."

"Could you give us some more background on the Monstrum murders?"

"There are clear links to other murders stretching back decades in other European capital cities. Given this time span, and the ritualistic graffiti left at each murder scene, my investigation concludes that the killings are the work of an ongoing cult rather than one individual."

One of the secondary judges, a rather frail-looking older man, spoke up. "And what of the forensic investigation? I understand there is still no progress regarding the metallic eruptions found on many of the corpses?"

"None, Sir. They've confounded science teams since the very first of these killings in Berlin in nineteen forty six, and I regret that we are no closer to understanding them now."

The presiding Judge continued. "Initially, you believed that the current spate of Monstrum killings were the work of a single perpetrator. What caused you to think otherwise?"

"Simply that several of the killings had taken place while the main suspect was still in England."

Come to that, she had still been in Paris when Vasiley met his end, but no-one still living could testify to that. And crossing the border illegally in a stolen jeep meant no documents, no flight records or plane tickets to back up her claim.

"Can you tell us, in brief, what the Obscura Paintings were, and their relevance to this case?"

"Yes, your Honor. The Obscura Paintings are central to the case. They're five fourteenth century canvasses that were sought by Pieter van Eckhardt and his cult for use in their alchemic rituals, apparently because they believed the paintings would allow them to recreate an ancient artefact that would, eventually, allow them to achieve immortality."

"A charming tale," said the judge drily. "Yes, Mr. Karel?"

"Your Honor, I submit that the exact details of the Paintings and the rituals involving them are of little relevance to us today. The important facts are that Eckhardt and his accomplices sought these paintings, and were willing to commit mass murder to obtain them."

"Commissioner, would you agree with the defense counsel's assessment?"

"Those are the salient facts, your Honor," said Mirepoix quietly, bowing his head.

"So noted," stated the judge, with a nod to the clerk, who scribbled busily. Lenoir, resting his chin on interlocked fingers, looked closely at Karel but said nothing.

"The court thanks you for your testimony, Commissioner Mirepoix. Please remain in the building in case we need you again."

Mirepoix bowed his head again and left.

"Would the prosecution please call its first witness."

Lenoir spoke with unmistakeable if subtle snideness. "Unfortunately, our pool of witness is severely limited" –he glanced pointedly at Lara- "since so few of those involved in this grisly business are still alive to-"

"Your Honor," interrupted Karel, standing. "Please ask the prosecution to limit their accusations -direct _or_ implied - to that which they can substantiate with evidence."

The judge nodded her agreement. "Please get on, Mr Lenoir," she said calmly, and Lenoir subsided.

"The prosecution would like to call Pierre Tabard as a witness."

He was just as Lara remembered him that early morning in Place de l'Arcade, a smallish, somewhat scrawny looking man with a furtive eye out for his own interests. His smart suit didn't look right on him at all - it was supposed to lend him dignity, but it was almost the other way around, as though he drained the dignity out of the suit - and he looked distinctly ill at ease as he took the stand. Perhaps it was the presence of so many legal personnel. Lara thought the Café Metro had had that distinctive whiff of petty crime about it. _Something to hide, have we? _she thought, leaning her chin on her hand and staring at him, almost smiling. He didn't return her gaze, in fact he studiously avoided looking at her.

"Name, age, place of birth and occupation please."

"Pierre Tabard, forty five, born in Paris. I own the Café Metro off Rue Dominique, eleventh _arrondissement_."

"Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, nothing but the truth..? And to speak without hate and without fear…?" The clerk's pen moved rapidly over his papers as he recorded Pierre's assent.

"And you are neither related to, nor employed by the accused?"

"No," said Pierre, then hastily added "Your Honor."

"All right. Proceed, Mr. Lenoir."

Pierre's testimony was straightfoward. He was simply asked to summarise the depositions he had already made, to the effect that Lara had been in his Café early in the morning of December the sixteenth, interested not in food or drink but in the whereabouts of local crimelord Bouchard.

"And how did the accused seem to you when you spoke to her, Mr Tabard? What was her manner?"

"She was…angry. Impatient. Threatening."

"You felt intimidated by her?"

"_Oui_. She said that if things didn't work out, she knew where to find me," said Pierre, and Lara bit her lip, wishing that either she'd been more polite, or that she'd dropped the little runt into the Seine afterwards, just to keep things tidy.

"I'd wager you are not easily intimidated, Mr Tabard, living and working in an area as rough as _Cours la Seine_."

"No I'm not," replied Pierre proudly.

"All right, then. Thank you, Mr Tabard. No more questions, Your Honor."

Karel stood. "Permission to approach, Your Honor."

The judge glanced up, something like surprise flitting across her features. "Permission granted, Mr Karel," she said, gesturing towards Pierre.

_What could you possibly want with Pierre?_ thought Lara, watching Karel in puzzlement. Lenoir, too, wore a faintly bemused expression as he looked on.

Karel went straight to the stand, and without pausing, said, "Monsieur Tabard. Was Miss Croft the only person to visit Café Metro on the morning in question?"

Pierre seemed slightly surprised by the question, but answered readily. "No, there was one other customer…a man, who came in before her…and left shortly after she did," he added.

Lara sat up straighter and stared at Karel.

Karel took a step closer to the stand and held something up. Lara couldn't see it from her position, but she knew what it must be. "Is this the man?"

"Yes."

"You're certain?"

"Yes. I remember him because he was the only other person to come in that day. Business hasn't been good lately, since all the trouble began. And he seemed like a man with troubles himself."

"Really?"

"Yes," said Pierre, warming to his subject. "He got through an entire bottle of my best Chateau Molinet 1979."

Karel raised his eyebrows. "Not a very good year," he commented, drawing a few smiles from the jury. He looked over his shoulder to the court clerk. "For the record, please: the witness has made a positive identification of the man currently using the pseudonym Kurtis Trent."

He caught the jury's attention with that; looking over at them, Lara saw the smiles change to frowns of puzzled interest, which must have been mirrored on her own face. She quickly composed her features but kept staring at him, wondering where this was leading.

Apparently Lenoir's thoughts were going in the same direction, because he rose to his feet to object. "Your Honor, what does any of this have to do with the accused?"

"Please conclude quickly, Mr Karel," said the Judge pointedly.

Karel addressed Pierre again. "Did you speak to this man while he was in your café, other than in the course of taking his order?"

"Yes, I did."

"Please recount the conversation for the court, Mr Tabard."

"He asked about the same things she did," said Pierre, with a quick nervous glance at Lara. "How to find Bouchard." Another ripple of interest at Bouchard's name.

"And did you answer all these questions willingly?"

"Well…" Pierre hesitated, swallowing nervously.

"Go on," Karel prompted.

"He was armed. When I didn't answer him quickly enough, he pulled a gun on me."

"A gun," repeated Karel. "And had Miss Croft threatened you with a weapon, when you spoke to her?"

"No, she hadn't."

"I see," said Karel softly. He paused a moment to let the testimony sink in, then said, "No further questions."

Pierre practically scuttled from the stand, but Karel stayed where he was. "Your Honor, may I have permission to confer with my client and then question her further?"

The judge conferred briefly with her assessors, then nodded. "I'm going to allow it. Go ahead, Mr. Karel."

Lenoir got to his feet, looking displeased. "Madame, this is unorthodox-"

"Mr Lenoir, due to the nature of this case I have allowed you a more than usual amount of freedom with the defendant and witnesses. It is only fair that I extend the same to the defense counsel."

Lara looked down into Karel's eyes. "Joachim, what are you-"

"Lara," he said, low. "I don't need to remind you what's at stake. Trust me, and answer simply and truthfully."

She stared into his eyes, then nodded. Not as if she had much choice. He gave her a quick, contained smile, and she realised that he was enjoying himself.

She went back to the stand, and he showed her the same photo that he had showed Pierre. The face was the same, a little younger, the hair a little shorter. The eyes just as blue and as hard as she remembered.

"Do you recognise this man?"

"Yes."

"From where?"

"He was in Café Metro that morning. I saw him again at the Louvre later the same day, and then in Strahov."

"Did you speak to him in the Café Metro?"

"No. He seemed preoccupied. I approached him but he just waved me away."

"And what happened when you encountered him in the Louvre?"

"We still didn't speak. He took me by surprise, and…he took the Obscura Painting from me."

"The one you discovered beneath the Louvre?"

"Yes."

Judges as well as jurors had frowns on their faces now, but Lara never looked at them. She kept her eyes steady on Karel's, speaking to him as if the rest of the court had ceased to exist.

"Did you know Mr Trent in any way, had you even heard of him prior to your encounters in Paris and Prague?"

"No," she replied, truthfully.

"Then you weren't aware that he had spent almost five years as a mercenary, in the employment of Marten Gunderson – who himself worked for Eckhardt?"

She glanced down briefly to cover her shock. "No, I wasn't," she managed, peripherally aware that the other parties were flipping through the case file to see the confirmation of this for themselves in stark, black print. The looks on their faces said it all. And suddenly, Gunderson's agonised final words started to make sense.

Why was she surprised? She'd come across enough hired guns in her time, she should recognise one by now, but _he_ had had something of a distracting effect on her…

"The Painting Trent took from you," Karel continued, relentless. "Was that the last you saw of it?"

"No…" she frowned at him.

"You saw it again, afterwards?"

"Yes."

And then she recognised his strategy - brilliant, logical, unmerciful - and she knew exactly what was coming next.

"Where?"

If she had had forewarning, time to consider, she might just have balked, but he had given her neither of those. Her brain was a whirlpool of truth, lies, half-truths and betrayal, but from it all one thing emerged with diamond clarity: the prospect of spending the rest of her life as a captive - a cell, her, who had always chafed at the slightest hint of confinement.

"The next time I saw that Painting, it was in Eckhardt's possession," she said clearly.

The murmurs that broke out all over the court grew to such a pitch that they drowned Karel's quiet "No further questions", and the judge had to order silence twice before dismissing them both.

As Lara rejoined Karel in the defense stand, staring at him, she heard the Judge saying grimly, "Find Kurtis Trent. I want him in the stand."

She sat down again, hardly even sweating. And reflected, not for the first time, that it was amazing what you'd do to save your own skin.

* * *

**These chapters were hellishly difficult to write, especially as I had to do lots of research into the French legal system beforehand (it's very different to the Anglo-American systems - I did my best but had to take some small amount of artistic licence) and for the past six months I've been in the middle of moving house. So I hope you'll all forgive the long wait.** **Two chapters to make up for it. Love to hear what you think, as always!**

**Jordy xxx**


	17. The Truth

**The Truth**

It had been like the split second before a death-defying leap – poised high above the ground, the abyss hungry beneath you, knowing that to hesitate would mean to fall. No time to think, to calculate trajectories or consequences - or to turn back. No, you just had to jump, and trust to fate and your own momentum.

"What the bloody hell was that?" she had hissed into Karel's ear as they left the building afterwards. He had simply looked at her before telling her what she already knew: "Your best chance at freedom, Lara."

"You never told me you were going to-"

"Would you like to go back in and recant?" he had interrupted, brows raised, and she had fallen silent. Had she done so - acted out of some lingering sense of loyalty, or nobility - what would that have meant? To watch her defense fall apart, to end up behind bars? In some other reality, Kurtis might have been ally, friend or lover, and still she would not have risked that for him. And here and now, he was none of those things. Here and now, he was just another _personne disparue_, untraceable even after two day's adjournment and the best efforts of the French police. The trial had gone on without him.

"Would all parties please return to the courtroom."

The recess was over. The official's voice, formal and precise, issued the summons in French and then English, ending her train of thought. Automatically she stood and followed Karel inside. He was typically collected as he took his seat in front of her, but something in the set of his shoulders and spine, in the alert turn of his head, spoke to her of a tension quite different from her own. He was eager to begin again. _Well, lucky him_, she thought resentfully, knotting her fingers to stop their nervous tapping from betraying her.

Earlier that day, they had heard the evidence from the forensics expert and the psychologists. Forensics had been lengthy and entirely predictable, exhibit after plastic-wrapped exhibit being wheeled out for the court to see, guns, empty shells, and after that, several minutes of CCTV footage culled from the Louvre's security cameras.

She had never thought to find herself reliving _that_ – those erotic, dangerous moments that had altered the course of the entire quest - much less in front of a court full of people. She was glad that the camera's angle had not captured the expression on her face as Kurtis' hand wandered down her body, ostensibly to relieve her of her weapons, but all the same she was glad when the footage ended.

Karel had watched in silence, and if there was displeasure on his face, no-one was close enough to see it.

Finally, there had been a battery of DNA test results. No surprise that her own bullets had been recovered from the bodies of the dead Czech police and guards, but then their guns had been fired too. It would be down to Joachim to argue self-defense, and that part at least would be the whole truth.

The truth. Thinking of that, she had to hold back ironic laughter. Her testimony regarding Kurtis and the Painting had been the truth, but none the less deceiving for all that. _Justified_, one part of her insisted. Another, more honest part admitted that she had done it simply to preserve herself, but that was nothing new. Too many years of raiding tombs would do that to you, finer feelings thrust ruthlessly aside by the most basic imperative of all: survival_._

And Kurtis had, if absent in body, continued to haunt the proceedings, a DNA ghost called up from the scrapings of the skin cells and blood that he, like she, had left from Rue Valise to the Strahov. The traces cried out from each point of the trail they had both followed with the same, highly personal, compulsion. Thus far they were even.

But the psychologists' evidence had been less ambiguous. Under first the judges' and then Lenoir's close questioning, it had all come out, with the prosecutor already trying to put the worst possible spin put on it: her liking for living and working alone, her especial reclusiveness since Egypt ('shunning society', as Lenoir described it) her predilection for dangerous hobbies, her proficiency with firearms…

The picture that had emerged could not have failed to make an impression on judge and jury; a definite point for the prosecution. There was little that Karel could have done about that, but now it was their turn again, and the turn of the character witnesses. Meaning those few who knew her best - or used to.

A few bangs of the Judge's gavel, and the court came quickly to order, the murmurs ceasing, every face turning towards the front. As usual, the woman came straight to the point: "This court is now in session. Would Father Bram Patrick Dunstan please take the stand."

How long had it been - three, four years? Lara couldn't help turning to look as he made his way to the front. Prematurely white-haired but all the more dignified for it, his step was just as jaunty, his face as lively and good-humored as in the memories of her childhood, and one memory in particular.

The lesson that morning had been from the book of Proverbs, a lesson to which twelve year old Lara had paid no attention whatsoever, being engrossed in her examination of the Saxon carvings adorning the church wall. She had leaned closer, and closer still, running her fingers over the cool rise-and-fall of the stonework…and suddenly the priest's low voice had risen, loudly emphasizing the words, "_Pay attention_ to your teacher, and learn from his instruction." She had frozen; turning her head cautiously, she saw that he was looking right at her, and she had resigned herself to public disgrace, but instead he had given her the ghost of a merry wink before carrying on with the reading. Afterwards, he sought her out, not with a rebuke but with the offer of the loan of any book from his own considerable collection on local archaeology and history. "Encouraging young minds," he had explained cheerfully to Lord Croft, who already perceived his wayward daughter's interest a hindrance to more important things, like cooking lessons and etiquette classes.

"Father Dunstan," the Judge began, "In your deposition, you state that you have known Lara Croft since she was a young child, is that correct?"

"Indeed. I've been the Croft family's priest since nineteen seventy eight, so I've known Lara since she was ten."

"And you maintained contact with her even after her parents formally disowned her?"

"That's right, ma'am."

"And you have been in the priesthood for how long?"

"Thirty three years this coming spring."

"Would you please give the court a summary of your regular duties?"

"Well now, there'd be the regular masses and the preaching, the weddings and the funerals..." he ran through an impressive list of commitments, the Judge nodding as she made the occasional note in her dossier- "...pastoral visitin', counselling..."

"Counselling? Could you expand on that?"

"A priest has to be there for his flock. People come to me with all kinds o' difficulties. Depression. Spiritual struggles. Marriage problems and the like."

"Would it be reasonable then, to say that during your time with the Church, you have gained a, let us say, deeper than average understanding of human nature - of people and their problems?"

"Yes, that'd be fair."

"Thank you. And now would you please give us your assessment of the defendant's character - remembering, with respect to your close relationship, that you have sworn to speak only truth?"

Patrick folded his hands. "Well, ma'am. She's quite simply the bravest young woman I've met. She hasn't had it easy in a lot o' ways, but she's never failed to make the best of every situation she's been in. Resourceful, you might say. She's even saved my bacon on occasion," he added with a brief chuckle. "She was always one for adventures, and it's gotten her into mischief more than once. And she's certainly capable of defending herself. But despite what some think, she's no cold-blooded killer."

"Then in your opinion, Miss Croft is not capable of the crimes of which she stands accused?"

"No, ma'am, she is not," said Patrick firmly.

"Thank you, Father, your testimony has been very helpful. Before I dismiss the witness, are there any supplementary questions from counsel?" asked the Judge, looking from Lenoir to Karel and back again.

"Yes," said Lenoir, rising. "Your Honor, the good Father has told us that he remained in contact with Miss Croft after her rift with her family. I am curious to know if that contact has remained constant since then?"

"Father Dunstan?" the Judge prompted.

For the first time, the priest seemed hesitant. "Well, no. In fact, we've spoken but once since she came back from the trip to Egypt."

"That was in-" the Judge consulted her file, "- two thousand. Well, Father, while I am sure many of us are familiar with the gossip surrounding Miss Croft's return from Egypt, I think we need to hear in your own words the reason for this sudden loss of contact?"

Patrick paused again, but knowing him, Lara knew he could only tell the truth.

"After she got back," his words came slowly, "she seemed to have lost a lot of her interest in life. Whatever she'd been through - the accident, and afterwards - it had changed her."

"Please continue."

"She said she just wanted to be alone, and eventually, she stopped takin' my phone calls."

"Your Honor, perhaps the Father would tell us whether Miss Croft treated all of her former friends this way?" put in Lenoir.

"So far as I know, she'd cut off contact with everyone she used to know," the priest responded quietly.

"Including Werner Von Croy?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe that she blamed Von Croy in any way for what happened to her in Egypt?"

"Yes, sir. I believe she did," said Patrick, even more quietly.

Lenoir said nothing, but there was a faint look of satisfaction on his face as he bent over to scribble something on his file.

"Mr. Karel?" said the Judge.

"Yes, your Honor. I believe it would be useful to have Father Dunstan's assessment of the changes in my client's personality. Did he, for example, perceive anything dangerous in Miss Croft, any suggestion of destructive, or violent behaviour?"

As Karel spoke, Father Dunstan looked directly at him for the first time and felt a brief unease about this new friend of Lara's. Still, if the man was trying to prove her innocence, then the two of them were on the same side, weren't they? At the Judge's nod, he replied readily.

"All I saw," he said gently, "was a very hurt young woman who needed time and space."

_You've never thought anything less than the best of me, have you_, thought Lara, with sudden warmth.

"Unfortunately," the Judge said as Patrick left the stand, "our proposed second witness, the defendant's former butler, has become unavailable due to ill health-"

_Winston…?_ thought Lara, with a flicker of concern.

"-however, his deposition is quite detailed and is contained in the dossier; in summary, his opinion of Miss Croft is..."

Even in judicial paraphrase Winston's unwavering loyalty and regard shone through. There would be little Lenoir could mine out of that, but then again, he had plenty to work with already.

When it came to the closing address the prosecution had their turn first, and his speech came as no surprise; it was long, clever, and, drawing heavily on the psychological evidence, peppered with phrases like _loner_, _unstable_ and _liking for violent pursuits_.

For Lara, his words were another unwelcome reminder that this was not the field she was accustomed to playing in. Physical danger was one thing, but to have to sit still and listen to someone pick apart your character, knowing there was nothing you could do to stop them....

_Yeah. Give me a couple of armed thugs any day._

And Lenoir was good at what he did, very good. "The forensic as well as the eyewitness evidence confirms the defendant's presence at each of the crime scenes," he was saying. "The apartments of Professor Von Croy and Madame Carvier. The Serpent Rouge nightclub and surrounding area. The Louvre. Mathias Vasiley's home. The Strahov Fortress. _Opportunity_ is beyond dispute."

"So in deciding the matter of whether she was indeed van Eckhardt's accomplice in these killings - or rather, these brutal, sadistic _slayings_ - we must concentrate on her character and motives. In short, is Lara Croft the kind of person who would have committed such crimes, and what would have been her reasons for doing so?"

"It is clear enough from the testimonies of the psychologists and Miss Croft's own friends that she has always been something of a recluse, and that she had become a virtual hermit after her Egyptian ordeal – shunning even those closest to her, seething with resentment against Werner Von Croy. The defendant herself has told us of her longstanding enmity with the late Professor, an enmity that can only have been aggravated by that particular encounter. Perhaps she took his life in simple vengeance and then decided to add these valuable Obscura paintings to her own collection - a final chance to best Von Croy, as it were."

Face thoughtful, Lenoir clasped his hands behind his back as he continued:

"Why might Miss Croft have elected to work with someone like Eckhardt? Perhaps Eckhardt's cult was no more than a conduit for her own lust to possess rare artefacts. Or perhaps her mind had become so dark and twisted that she had genuinely dedicated herself to following his insane teachings."

"Perhaps it was a mixture of both. We may never know the full truth, but what is certain is that there is plentiful evidence linking her activities to his during the period in question."

"The defense will argue that her involvement in all this began with a desire to _help _Professor Von Croy. This is, to put it mildly, a charitable interpretation; she has rarely shown such consideration for others, especially where relics are involved. Consider, for example, that none of the historical artefacts Miss Croft is credited with uncovering are currently in museums, where the public can enjoy and learn from them. Instead she has chosen to keep them in her private collection."

"In fact, while the defendant is often referred to in the media as an 'archaeologist', I would remind the court that she has no formal qualifications. Some consider her a pretender in the field. Indeed given the distinctly mercenary nature of many of her expeditions, dedicated to finding treasure rather than history, I submit that describing her as an _archaeologist_ is an insult to all bona fide members of that profession."

Only Karel's warning glare stopped Lara from bolting to her feet and - _and what_? she asked herself. Contradicting him? Was he so far from the truth?

Just then he turned towards her as he spoke, catching her eye and startling her. Recognising her own distraction, she once again composed her features_. Survival_, she reminded herself. That was the only thing that could be allowed to matter. Get out of this intact, and deal with any ramifications later…

"…may be thinking that, given the traumatic nature of Miss Croft's experience in Egypt, she was acting under diminished responsibility, but the defendant herself has not attempted to offer any evidence to this effect. And so, Madam President, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I submit that in the event of a guilty verdict, there can be only one possible sentence for these crimes: life without possibility of parole."

Lenoir paused. As Lara bit her lip, he drew himself up and addressed the court once more.

"Ladies and gentlemen, is Lara Croft is really an _archaeologist_, or is she little more than an opportunistic grave robber who thinks nothing of using force to dispatch whatever obstacles are in her way...including people?"

He left the question hanging in the air for a moment, looking along the row of faces, making eye contact with each judge and juror. "That is for you to decide," he concluded.

* * *

**I know, I know, it's been ages. Since I last updated, I've turned 30, been abandoned without warning by my husband, and had to move back in with my parents. Still, never give up! The next two chapters are imminent. Thank you all for your patience and continued support. **

**~Jordy xx**


	18. Verdict

**Verdict**

"Thank you, Prosecutor," said the Judge, as evenly as if she had just listened to a music recital. "Mr. Karel?"

Karel, who had listened to Lenoir in absolute stillness, rose with a brief nod to the bench. And when Lara looked back on the trial later, the thing that she remembered most clearly was the sound of his voice, a voice perfectly suited to his profession; deep, cultured and clear, the tone and pitch carefully judged to command attention.

"I want to begin by saying to you that you should not allow yourselves to be influenced by the Prosecution's efforts to smear Miss Croft's character, with the kinds of sensationalist allegations better suited to a tabloid newspaper than a court of law. Remember the testimony we have heard from those who know Miss Croft best, who have known her since childhood, and who remain convinced that she could not have committed these horrific crimes. And whether or not my client has passed any archaelogical exams, she remains one of the twentieth century's foremost names associated with new discoveries in the field. To overlook the valuable contributions she has made to the archaeological community would be to take a wilfully blinkered view of her career."

"Contrary to what Mr. Lenoir would have you believe, Miss Croft travelled to Paris to help the late Professor Von Croy - after, as his phone records show, he first made several calls to her requesting her assistance. That she would show such loyalty to her former mentor even after their many differences surely tells us something about her character."

"The prosecution would like also you all to believe that, having brutally murdered the Professor, my client, already aware that the police were chasing her, responded by committing a _further_ string of murders. Is it reasonable to think that she would compound her predicament in this reckless manner? Isn't it much more likely that she was doing what she claimed - that is, trying to solve her old friend's murder and prove her own innocence along the way?"

"While my client accepts that she should not have run from the police, her motivation for doing so was not criminal, but an attempt to solve the murder of her old friend and prove her own innocence along the way."

"The prosecution points out that both eyewitness and forensic evidence place Miss Croft at each crime scene - but the same is true of the elusive Kurtis Trent. Or should I say, the man currently calling himself Kurtis Trent."

Karel paused before resuming his measured pacing.

"Before condemning Lara Croft to a life behind bars, it is your duty to consider very seriously whether _her _guilt is the most likely explanation for these crimes. Or is there a more plausible candidate?"

"I contend that there is. The investigation that has taken place over the last two days has not, unfortunately, brought Trent himself to light, but it has revealed a wealth of information - including the fact that the name 'Trent' is just one of several pseudonyms used by him in the course of a distinctly unsavoury career. We knew that Trent has in the past worked for Marten Gunderson, Eckhardt's head of security. We now know that he served five years in the French Foreign Legion before being discharged for 'disturbances related to the occult'. And that - unlike my client - he has at least one previous criminal conviction, namely a month in prison in two thousand and one for a violent brawl in a bar in Baltimore."

For a second, Lara stopped seeing the courtroom, and saw, once again, Kurtis' face, black with anger as he told her, "_Eckhardt murdered him-_" …and it wasn't hard to guess at the circumstances that might have led up to that particular fight, rage and grief fuelled by an overabundance of alcohol-

"…even more importantly, we also know that Trent took one of the Obscura paintings from Miss Croft – the same painting that Eckhardt himself was seeking so assiduously. We have seen this on video with our own eyes. And my client has testified that the same painting ended up in Eckhardt's hands. Are we to accept this as mere coincidence – or was the retrieval of the painting Trent's latest assignment from Eckhardt, via Gunderson?"

An assignment? In a very real way it had been, albeit a self-imposed one. But that - the whole saga of Lux Veritatis, Nephilim and Black Alchemist, its centuries of struggle in the shadows, was secret, undocumented, obscured to the court and even to the investigative powers of the police.

Karel was still speaking, bringing his argument full circle by reminding the court again of Lara's standing in the community, her donations to charity; it was obligatory, almost run-of-the-mill stuff, but even so the jury was listening to him intently.

"…victim of circumstances who was simply acting in self-defense on the occasions that she did use force. Trent, by contrast, is a professional mercenary with a history of violence and of dealings with the occult, a man with proven links to Eckhardt, a man known to have been seeking the same pivotal artefacts as my client, but without her extenuating circumstances."

"On the basis of all the evidence, it is clear to me that the only reasonable, the only _just_ course of action for this court to take is to acquit Lara Croft, and have the authorities focus their efforts on bringing Kurtis Trent to trial instead."

His gaze swept along the line of judges and jurors.

"But you must decide for yourselves: which one of the two best fits the profile of a ruthless killer?"

"Which is the more _convincing_ explanation?" With a respectful dip of the head, he returned to his seat amid solemn silence.

"This hearing is closed," declared the Judge, pounding her gavel once against the wood.

* * *

Ah, the subtle rhythms of justice, the satisfaction of listening to the hopes and fears and prejudices that filled any courtroom, and then of taking them and turning them to his own purpose. Most people felt compelled to submit themselves to the ebb and flow of the proceedings, but submission was not in his nature, and _he_ sought only control.

Beside him, Lara was tense again, her skin paler than normal, and that too was foreign to him. He had never been anything other than sure, even that first time when he had not been defending but prosecuting, and had seen the defendant - a man by the name of Guilhelm - led away, too shocked to protest, to face the guillotine's swift and terrible descent.

As for Lara herself, she had no idea how long they sat in the small, warm, quiet room, not speaking, looking straight ahead. Long enough for her imagination to conjure nightmare images of incarceration, long enough to turn over and over in her mind the kind of life that lay ahead of her, should judges and jury find Lenoir's arguments more convincing than Karel's.

Before they retired to deliberate, the Judge had read, in a formal, almost rhythmic tone, the charge to the court, words she must have spoken hundreds of times before:

"'The law does not ask the judges to account for the means by which they convinced themselves; it does not charge them with any rule from which they shall specifically derive the fullness and adequacy of evidence. It requires them to question themselves in silence and reflection and to seek in the sincerity of their conscience what impression has been made on their reason by the evidence brought against the accused and the arguments of her defense. The law asks them but this single question, which encloses the full scope of their duties: are you inwardly convinced?'"

It all sounded horribly subjective to Lara. She hoped no-one on the jury was feeling ill-tempered or vindictive.

And then, bizarrely, she found her thoughts returning to Werner. Not so long ago the prospect of her being incarcerated on his account would have given him malicious satisfaction, but the last time she had seen him, he had been a frightened old man. What had happened in Egypt had aged him more than it had aged her.

The door opened. "Miss Croft? Mr. Karel? Please return to the courtroom for the verdict."

Inside, Lenoir was already seated; he eyed her briefly as she entered, and she hated him for the calm expectation of triumph that she saw in his face.

She took her seat again behind Karel, trying for composure and hoping she was fooling the other inhabitants of the courtroom better than she was fooling herself.

The Judge, after a brief exchange with the _assesseurs_ on either side, took up her documents and began to speak.

Karel raised his head, his gaze intent. Lara held her breath-

"The court's answer to the question 'Is the defendant guilty of the murder of Werner von Croy?' is - no. The judgment-"

The Judge's words were lost as the courtroom erupted into noise; Lara closed her eyes and let out a long sigh that went unheard beneath the hubbub.

"Silence, please…silence!" ordered the Judge. "The judgment is _acquittal_."

She continued, "The court's answer to the question 'Is the defendant guilty of the murder of Margot Carvier?' is no. The judgment is acquittal…"

And so it continued, warm relief bubbling up inside Lara as she was cleared, one by one, of the string of crimes. The judgment for the lesser offences of trespassing, evading arrest, carrying weapons, entering a country illegally, and for the deaths of the Prague police and security men, was slightly different: absolution on the grounds of aggravating circumstances, which, she knew, was the best outcome she and Karel could have hoped for.

Lenoir was too professional to make any overt show of disappointment, but the grim tightening of his mouth bore testament to his feelings, and he wasted no time in gathering his papers together and exiting the courtroom.

"Clearly this case is far from being resolved," said the Judge as he left, "however, the court is satisfied, in the main, of the defendant's innocence. I have already consulted with Commissioner Mirepoix; the Police Nationale and Interpol will be using all their resources to find and detain Kurtis Trent in addition to the continuing search for Pieter van Eckhardt. And on that subject," she added acidly, "I trust, Miss Croft, that _you_ have learned from all this that the investigation of crime is something best left to the proper authorities?"

"Yes, madam," Lara said quietly, in the same tone of false penitence she had perfected in adolescence. Well, it had always worked on her mother…

The Judge looked at her narrowly, then gestured towards the door. "You should be thankful that you have such an able advocate. You are free to go – and try to stay out of trouble in the future."

_Oh, you have no idea, Madame…_Lara told her silently. _You have no idea_.

"Lara?" said Karel, turning to her with the hint of a smile, indicating for her to precede him.

Lara left the chamber with the Judge's disapproving stare on her back and the certainty that her name would be adorning international headlines for some time to come. But she didn't care. It was over, and she had survived.

* * *

A little way along the corridor, obviously waiting for her, stood Father Dunstan…and next to him, Jean-Yves. She hadn't seen him, but he must have been in the courtroom all along, offering her his support. As always.

Lara stopped in front of them. Karel'e eyes moved over them once, his face revealing nothing, then he moved on ahead to wait. They looked at her with hope in their eyes.

"...Winston?" she asked quietly.

Patrick merely shook his head, his face grave.

"It was too much for him, Lara," clarified the Frenchman. "His health 'asn't been good for a while, and these past few months...well." He trailed off, and indeed there was no need to say any more. "His daughter is with him," he added gently.

Lara nodded slowly, eyes lowered. Winston; there had never been a time in her life when he had not been there, a presence warmer and more constant than her own parents had ever been. But on the heels of the inevitable surge of sorrow came a paradoxical trickle of relief. One more tie to her old life loosened, and soon to be severed. Somehow, it made the whole thing easier - and in any case, grief and guilt were of no use to her whatsoever. She raised her head again.

"Thank you," she told them sincerely, looking from one to the other, but then, even as their faces relaxed into warm smiles: "And - goodbye." It was little more than a whisper, and then, face averted, she was gone, as if telling herself that the decision had been made and that there was no going back.

Jean-Yves' face as he watched her leave was sad. "I don't think we'll be seeing her again, old friend," he murmured.

"Aye," said the priest, and sighed. "May the good Lord keep her safe."

Lara rejoined Karel, who glanced back briefly at the two men.

They threaded their way through the busy corridor and around the corner, ignoring the stares - and came face to face with Mirepoix, who had just turned away from a conversation with a policeman. Disinterested, Lara continued past him, but Karel stopped in his tracks.

There was a snap of tension as their eyes met; an instantaneous recognition that made Joachim go rigid, his tongue flickering in a soundless hiss, and Mirepoix take half a step back without even realizing it, frowning deeply at the sudden upwelling of alarm. His mouth struggled to form the words of defense that should have been his birthright: "You-" he began, and got no further. He could not begin to explain this, the cold primitive fear - fear for himself and everyone in the building - the incomparable sensation of something at once ancient and entirely new straining to wake within him.

It did not wake; it subsided back into dormancy, and Joachim relaxed minutely. They held each other's stares for several seconds longer, Mirepoix's eyes wary, Karel's narrowed and speculative. Finally he inclined his head as if in confirmation, as if he had discerned all that he wanted to know.

"Well, Commissioner," he said softly - and the pause was filled with possibilities, but in the end all he said was, "Now you have someone new to chase," and Mirepoix looked at him with an unreadable expression.

Even so, turning his back on the man warred against every instinct he possessed, but then _she_ was waiting for him just inside the doorway, impatient and beautiful, and she filled his eyes, and his mind, so that he forgot everything else.

With a resigned jerk of her head she indicated the ranks of journalists outside, thronging even the back entrance. "Let's find somewhere quieter," she said firmly.

"Certainly. I know a very fine restaurant off the Champs-Elysées..."

"Of course you do!" Lara pulled her collar up in readiness for the cold. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for getting me out of this," she added. "Even though, of course, you got me into this in the first place…"

"And with that in mind I've decided to waive my fee, which would have made a considerable dent even in _your_ bank balance, Lara."

She half-smiled at that as she shoved open the door. "You know, it's a good thing I wasn't on trial for traffic offences. I'm not sure even you would have been able to swing that one."

"Oh?"

"Well, I've broken a few speed limits in my time. And been responsible for the demise of a few cars. And motorbikes…ah, snowmobiles…a plane...and a gondola, once - Talk to my press agent!" she interrupted herself, shouting to the massed paparazzi as the inevitable barrage of questions began.

"You don't 'ave a press agent!" _Le Figaro_ yelled back indignantly.

"You noticed that, did you?" she replied, turning her back on them all.

Once clear of the press, Lara ran her hand covetously over the sleek dark blue bonnet of Karel's car. "Can I drive?" she asked.

"No," said Karel firmly.

* * *

**So. Glad. That's. Over.** **Writing this courtroom stuff was way harder than I imagined; to think I actually thought it would only take one chapter! I had to do tons of research, seeing how difference the French legal system is from the more familiar US and English ones. I made every effort to be accurate, and I hope you'll think it was worth it. Now I can get on with the rest of the story! **

**A few people have asked about Kurtis. You won't have to wait long before you see him again. There will be Consequences to what went on in court. **

**Drop me a review and I'll treat you to the next chapter, which is ready to go :-)**

**~Jordy**


	19. Interlude: City of Light

_I meant to post this one at New Year to coincide with the date it takes place, but I didn't get the preceding chapters finished in time. However, today is the Chinese / Lunar calendar New Year, which is just as good...so, happy Year of the Ox!_

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**Interlude: City of Light**

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Paris by night was an urban galaxy of twinkling lights, but the glittering golden inverted Y of the Eiffel Tower, its brackets and girders dusted with the last of the year's snow, dominated as it had done for over a century, outshining them all.

Lara gave it no more than a cursory glance as she wandered, heading nowhere in particular, letting her feet take her where they willed. The euphoria of winning the trial had been short-lived, and in the several days since she had become increasingly edgy and short-tempered, a reminder of why she had isolated herself since the return from Egypt.

Not that Karel's presence was an imposition. Unlike others, he would leave her alone for as long as she wanted; or, if she wanted, would stop whatever he was doing and talk to her for hours, late into the night when she found sleep impossible. It was as close to harmony as possible given her escalating black mood. But this particular night even the airy expanse of his apartment felt confining, the walls seeming to close in around her.

Her footsteps took her over Quai Voltaire and onto the Pont du Carrousel, and in the centre of the bridge she paused to contemplate Paris. A resolutely modern city, but somewhere among the daily bustle, the hordes of tourists, all of its yesterdays lingered on.

Prior to the Monstrum business, the last time she had been here was late July of nineteen ninety eight. That year Lara had been carefree, alive with a heady blend of youth and adventure as she hunted the Hand of Rathmore through the catacombs and side streets in a summer that seemed to stretch on forever. And the streets themselves had been friendlier then, not like the rain-soaked Paris she returned to later, pulsating with fear and darkness.

They were both older, more bitter, she and the city. Lara wondered if Paris would ever feel the same again. She wondered if _she_ would ever feel the same again.

Somewhere in the near distance, the bell of Saint-Sulpice spoke the hour in twelve slow, sonorous strokes. Lara leaned heavily on a parapet, her gaze going up to the sky where the New Year exploded above her in a tapestry of coloured lights that mirrored in the murky waters of the Seine.

Across the water, the display lit up the Tuilleries and the magnificent Renaissance sprawl of the Louvre in a harsh rainbow. Lara's eyes fixed themselves, unwillingly, on the mesmerising glow of the great glass pyramid. And as she watched, a stray firework drew a brief curving line of white fire over the apex like a shooting star, like an omen.

Four years to the day, and looking back she found it hard to believe that there had been no forewarning, no sense of the coming darkness. The search for Horus' amulet was supposed to have been her millennium trip, something she had planned and looked forward to for months. In a vivid flash, a snapshot of memory, she remembered how the grass had been hard and frosty on the ground in front of Croft Manor the day she left, brimming with excitement, for Cairo.

Lara exhaled. Her whole body sagged. Turning away from the water she let her knees give way beneath her, sliding down the rough, freezing stone and revelling in its discomfort.

Minutes, hours; she had no idea how long she sat there, head buried in her arms, but long enough for her fingers to grow numb with cold, when a shadow fell across her. She looked up, her eyes hard.

Joachim stood over her, something expectant in his manner. They regarded each other silently for several seconds before he said, simply, "You should come back, Lara. It's going to rain."

"After everything I've been through, do you think I care about getting wet?" she answered with quick, corrosive scorn.

His expression didn't alter in the slightest. He crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. "Lara, let me offer you some advice: stop feeling sorry for yourself."

His words stung her out of the opaque fog of self-absorption. "You have no idea what happened to me in-" she began, but trailed off as a faint glitter in his eyes, a change in the set of his mouth, said otherwise.

"Four years of sulking and self-flagellation is enough, wouldn't you say?"

Her eyebrows, her mouth and jaw drew into taut lines of anger. Outraged now, she raised her voice. "Sulking?! I was buried alive - and since then I haven't been able to look at a tomb without-"

"Yes, I know. But there's a simple remedy. Get back on the horse. The Seal, Lara."

"Now? You want me to go now?"

He looked at her appraisingly before answering. "I did what I said I would, Lara. You're a free woman. And now _I_ need _your _help." His voice was soft, but for all that, it was unmistakeably a reminder. _Quid pro quo._

"There's a flight in two hours," he added. "Why wait?"

He stood, looking up as the first heavy drops began to fall.

Her fists clenched in unconscious rage. But he was right, wasn't he? Since when had she, Lara Croft, been introspective and self-pitying?

The rain came harder, faster, washing away the last clinging pockets of snow. Sullen and furious, Lara bowed her head beneath the deluge, but then there was a sound like the rustling of satin, the faintest of whispers, as - since there was no-one else around - he freed his wings and brought them together in an arch over her head, sheltering her from the wet.

They looked at each other. Him as calm as ever, her mute with indignation. When he held out his hand to her, she took it unthinkingly, letting him pull her to her feet and already opening her mouth to rage at him when the look in his eyes brought her up short.

The downpour slackened, left off, releasing the rich scent of soaked earth and stone. As he flexed his wings and shook the rainwater from them, droplets falling to the ground like a shower of new silver, his eyes never strayed from hers. They were dark and brilliant, burning with intention.

She stared at him, her fingers tightening around his. "Joachim..." she said.

He stroked the back of one finger, lingeringly, across her cheek. "Yes," he said lowly, and taking her other hand, he drew her close.

She went willingly, anger transmuting on the instant to desire. The night receded, and nothing remained but the profound black of his eyes, the feel of his breath on her face, and then the cool silken shock of his lips on hers.

Lara closed her eyes. Her hands moved of their own accord, sliding up to grasp the back of his neck and pull him closer with all her strength. And this time there was no drawing back; he leaned gratefully into her touch, sighing into her mouth as her fingers tangled in the white-blond hair. Lost in the glorious revival of her senses, his hands running the length of her spine, his tongue caressing hers, she did not keep track of time, but when their lips parted, barely, it was far too soon.

Without saying anything he offered her his hand again. After staring at him a moment, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, she took it, deliberately entwining her fingers with his.

They walked shoulder to shoulder, occasionally glancing at each other, his eyes speaking to her although he didn't say a word. When they reached his home a car was already waiting for her in the courtyard, and she let go of his hand, turning to him with a wry lift of her eyebrows.

Churning with desire, cursing the clock, she ran inside to pack the few things she needed.

* * *

As the plane climbed into the black, she settled back into her seat, eyes thoughtful and shaded. She could still taste him, that strange delicious tang lingering on her mouth. And a sudden stab of apprehension speared through her. Not regret, but fearfulness at her own incaution; a warning. For Lara Croft of all people knew the fate of those who dared approach the ancient divines too closely, those who chose to play with the fire that burned in the darkness.

* * *

**:-)**

**The firework over the Louvre pyramid, by the way, is a little echo of Last Revelation's ending cutscene. **


	20. Slouching Towards Damascus

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**Slouching Towards Damascus**

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Fifty miles inland from the flashing blue basin of the Mediterranean, midway between Egypt and Anatolia on a plateau sheltered by the Anti-Lebanon mountains, lies one of the world's most ancient cities: _Dimashq ash-Sham_, as they call it in the Levant, whose fame was widespread centuries before the stones of Rome were laid. Ringed by a verdant oasis, it is watered by the River Barada on whose southern bank the oldest part of the city rests, enclosed by weathered ramparts and crumbling, gated walls. Stretching out and onto the slopes of the nearby mountains are the sprawling, comparatively youthful suburbs whose history goes back only as far as the Middle Ages. But they are of little interest to the figure who makes her way purposefully through the narrow streets in the gathering twilight.

Lara paused for a moment to look out across darkening Damascus, her eye caught by the scattering of tall minarets, glowing green in the dusk as they pointed the way upwards to heaven. Not for her, though. She was going downwards, if not into hell, then at least purgatory.

She had arrived at the airport early that morning, ignoring the line of taxis and making the journey into the city on foot, despite the fumes and the occasional wolf-whistle coming from the constant stream of passing vehicles. Given a distance of only a few miles it had taken her far longer than it should, anticipation making her footsteps heavy and slow.

To the west Mount Hermon raised its white-capped head, watching over the landscape as it had done for millennia, indifferent to the plight of one small human woman. Lifting her eyes to the snowy summit, Lara had found herself imagining what a young world must have looked like to curious, immortal eyes from its heights, new and vibrant and filled with wholly illusory promise.

She slipped through Bab al-Faradis, the Paradise Gate, ignoring the people she passed as she headed for the eastern part of the old city.

The streets were lit by the soft glow of hanging lanterns. Many of the tiny shops - no more than open-sided rooms set into the crumbling stone - were still open, selling rich Syrian silks, painted glass and perfumes, a kaleidoscope of colours and scents blurring in her senses as she passed. Further along, the souks were scarcely less crowded than they had been in the heat of the day, the cries of commerce scarcely less loud. Briefly, she found herself envying the swarms of bargain-hunters, wishing the treasure she sought could be obtained by a means as simple as haggling.

She walked between high weathered walls in every shade of sand and cream, underneath the incongruous liquorice-like tangles of electric cable that stretched from one side of the street to the other, past hidden fountain courtyards with the sound of water spilling onto sun-warmed stone, until finally the alley she was following widened out onto old Damascus' main thoroughfare, the 'street called Straight'.

Worn smooth by the feet of generations of pilgrims en route to Mecca, the Via Recta was like a lengthy tableau of Damascene history, a Greek inscription here, a Corinthian archway there. Down the centuries the city had borne the identities of all the great powers that had ruled it: Aramaic, Egyptian, Persian, Greco-Roman, Umayyad, Byzantine, Ottoman - layer on layer, culture after culture, each leaving their mark on the stones and walls long after their empires had faded, or fallen. And it was they that she had to thank for the nature of her task. Great age brings with it inscrutability, and Damascus hid her secrets only too well; since the city had been built over with every occupation, it had become almost impossible to excavate the ruins that lay deep below the modern level.

_Almost_ impossible. But that hadn't stopped them from trying…

Following the ancient walls to the left, she reached, after several more minutes, the city's only surviving first century church, _Kanissat Hananiyah_, the Chapel of Saint Ananias. With a nod to the doorman she went through the wrought iron gate and down the steps, sliding unobtrusively into one of the undecorated pews alongside the sightseers and the worshippers, both Christian and Muslim. She bowed her head as if in prayer, but in reality was studying the walls and floor with a practised eye.

Built at the level of the Roman street more than fifteen feet underground, the chapel consisted of two small, low rooms in uneven stone, the only adornment a gilded triptych above a cloth-covered altar. Lara's gaze passed over these in favour of the more recent and, to her, far more interesting feature: a large irregular hole in the back wall, protected by tarpaulins and wooden barriers. She sent silent thanks to the University of Damascus, whose latest archaeological project had at least saved her from having to resort to explosives.

Presently the remaining visitors started to leave, making unnecessary noise and fuss as they put away drink cartons and cameras - _tourists_, Lara thought in disgust - and as the guide was occupied saying goodnight to the last of them, she slipped past the yellow signs warning her of the tunnels' instability, behind the protective sheets, and waited. A few minutes later the lights went off and she heard the sound of the outer gate clanging. Locked shut, but that could be dealt with easily enough. Standing, she discarded her jacket, flicked the switch on her torch and took holsters and guns - obtained at an exorbitant price from a local contact - out of her backpack, strapping them on. They were all there, the familiar elements; the ribbed cotton stretching cleanly over her curves, the pack strapped securely to her back, the solid, reassuring weight of her boots. All that was missing was the excitement, the spirit of adventure, the desire to seek, conquer and explore.

As she busied herself she could feel the draught on the backs of her legs, rising up from the depths. Battling the urge to run after the other visitors, back up the stairs and out into the open air, she took a deep breath, then another, and turned around.

The tunnel was dark (of course) and steep (of course). Crouching down to peer along its length, she saw the crumbling cobwebbed walls disappearing down and down, into utter blackness.

"Easiest thing in the world," she muttered, and eased herself forward.

Initially there was, at least, a decent amount of space, thanks again to the University and their efforts at clearing the way. But rightly cautious, they had only come so far, and the tunnels originally intended for a person to walk through freely were now squeezed under the weight of all the newer Damascuses on top of them. As the passage levelled out the roof became lower and lower, until she had to drop onto her hands and knees and crawl.

Before she was a third of the way in, she was breathing heavily and covered with a sheen of sweat that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

This was worse than the Louvre, far worse than the underground reaches of the Strahov. At least there there had been room to maneuver. Here the numerous rockfalls made the tunnel so constricted in places that she had to force herself through, scraping raw the skin of knees and shoulders. Once she became stuck, and as she struggled to free herself, her treacherous mind threw at her the very thought she had been working so hard to suppress: thousands upon thousands of tonnes of stone above her, the weight of an entire city bearing down on the tiny figure wedged deep in the earth, able to go neither forward nor back-

With a huge effort of will, she clamped down on the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. For a moment she lay still, calming herself. Then, twisting carefully to one side, she found that she was able to pull her limbs free one by one, ignoring the resulting lacerations and the blood that sprang from them.

She went on, becoming uncomfortably hot. The tunnel was airless and dusty, and her progress sent up swirls of fine grit that clogged throat and eyes and worked its way mercilessly into her wounds. The only sounds were the clink of buckles and gun metal against the jagged rock, and her own harsh, irregular breathing.

After several harrowing minutes, the roof rose up from the floor, and as soon as she was able she stood upright, stretching to ease her cramped back and limbs. But the challenge wasn't over yet.

Above and ahead an archway emerged from the rock, worn with the ages but still smooth and regular enough to show that it had been man-made. She played the beam of her torch along the top:_ Cum transieris per aquas tecum ero, et flumina non operient te, _read the words engraved deeply into it.

"'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they will not sweep over thee," she murmured, and then, more loudly, arching an eyebrow: "_Waters_?"

She angled the beam downwards; it glinted on something up ahead. As she drew close, the wetness splashed around her feet, and then her ankles, calves and thighs, until she had to clip the torch to her belt and wade, using her arms to propel herself forward. The passage was dipping down again, the water rising to meet it; it closed like a frigid hand around her waist, and not far ahead it lapped at the roof. She was going to have to submerge completely. The question was, for how long?

She glanced back down the passage, and ahead into the still, black waters, knowing that it didn't matter. She could not turn back now. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and dived.

The water was bitterly cold, penetrating her clothing at once, but she ignored it as she settled into her stroke, releasing small regular breaths through pursed lips. At least there were no awkward twists and turns in this section - the passage was long and straight. It was the length that worried her. The murky water filled the tunnel completely, and there was not so much as an air pocket along the way.

She swam on, and on. After a few minutes the last of her air bubbled away, and still there was no end in sight. She kicked forward more strongly, the first tendrils of urgency creeping into her brain. Out of long practice she repressed them, knowing that it was vital she stayed calm.

Surely the flooded section could not last much longer? Her lungs felt like solid stone, her muscles protesting at being asked to perform at their maximum while lacking the vital fuel, oxygen. Against her will, she felt herself slow…

…and light intruded on her vision, a faint reddish glow that illuminated the shifting waters ahead. The end of the long swim, but could she make it?

A few more unsteady strokes, then the need to breathe became too great to deny, and her body's reflexes took over. Her chest contracted sharply, her mouth opened of its own accord, and stagnant water surged into her lungs. She coughed hard, the action only resulting in another involuntary inhalation. Her body convulsed violently. Black spots danced on the edges of her vision and vicious pains stabbed at her chest, but even through the agony she felt panic start to give way to a slow, sad calm that signalled the beginning of the end. In another few seconds she would lose consciousness and it would all be over-

Her flailing fingertips broke the surface, and she thrust upwards with her final ounce of strength, taking a great convulsive gulp of air. After the silence of submersion, her thrashing and frantic gasps were shockingly loud in the confines of the tunnel. The floor rose up sharply beneath her, and dragging herself out onto dry ground, she fell sideways, coughing until she felt her chest would tear itself apart, until the last of the foul-tasting water was expelled from her body.

Hunched over herself, shaking from the cold and wet, she drew wheezing lungfuls of air and waited for her strength to return. As it did so, she became gradually aware that the mysterious glow was stronger here, and that it was not constant but flickering, throwing undulating red-gold patterns onto the rocky walls.

Another archway loomed, the smooth curves contrasting with the jagged rock they had been fashioned from_. Cum ambulaveris in igne, non conbureris, et flamma non ardebit in te, _read the inscription this time. 'When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; the flames will not set thee ablaze.'

Lara groaned inwardly. Pushing soaking strands of hair out of her face as she moved around the next corner, she registered the sudden increase in temperature before she saw its source: the passage ahead was bisected by a deep, wide fire-pit, spanned by a narrow stone bridge that wavered in the shimmering, superheated air. The bridge itself was passable, but flames danced just inches below it.

As she came closer she saw that _bridge_ was an exaggeration. It was barely six inches wide. As she looked, the flames nearest her, fed by some unseen vent in the pit wall, rose like the swell of a wave to the height of the roof and went racing down the strip of stone, subsiding only when they reached the far side.

Lara's eyes widened, then narrowed as she assessed the situation. There was no room whatsoever for error. Cross too fast and she would topple and fall; too slowly and the flames would overtake her. It would call for nothing less than perfect balance and timing. Besides that, she suspected that the promises in the inscriptions had a limited application - and they could not have been meant for someone not of the faith, someone who had come on behalf of the Nephilim to plunder and steal. Her shoulders dropped even further.

"If it's not drowning, it's burning," she muttered aloud. "Sadists…"

She waited until the flames had finished their third pass, and stepped out onto the bridge.

Arms extended for balance, she walked as quickly as she dared - which was much slower than she would have liked, her pace hampered by the necessary precision of each step while below her the inferno raged, the flames writhing and snapping as though fighting amongst themselves for the privilege of consuming her flesh. The punishing heat beat fiercely at the soles of her shoes and hurt her already-abused lungs with each scorching intake of breath. Sweat ran freely down her body and into her scrapes and gashes, while flying sparks bit at her unprotected legs and arms.

The heat was dizzying, making it that much harder to maintain her co-ordination. She swayed perilously once, twice, only just saving herself with a quick subtle shift of her weight in the opposite direction.

She was a little more than halfway across when she heard the vents behind her start to hiss, and she gritted her teeth, knowing what was coming. Twelve feet to go. A few more steps. Nine. Eight. Seven…

The vents roared, and she felt the renewed blast of burning air on her back. With five feet to go and the wall of flame blazing down on her she abandoned caution and broke into a sprint, relying on momentum alone to carry her the final few feet. As she reached the end of the bridge she hurled herself forward, turning the dive into a roll that finished in a crouch.

Behind her, the flames died back down.

Panting, faint from the intense heat, she dragged a hand over her face, examining her blistered, blackened fingers, the frizzled ends of her singed hair. The implications of the fact that very few people would be able to make it through such deadly defenses in one piece were not lost on her. The entire tomb had been designed to push the human body to its limits and beyond, so that only those with exceptional abilities could gain access. In other words, Lux Veritatis.

"And me," she whispered to herself. "Well, it looks like they never saw _me_ com-"

A sudden change in the texture of the air made her roll swiftly sideways, out from underneath the massive sword that slammed into the dust right where she had been crouching.

As she flipped back onto her feet, the knight stepped back, raising his blade for another try with the same dogged fanaticism she remembered only too well. Her hands went for her guns - but remembering the rockfalls, she stopped. A single shot could collapse the whole place. Speed and maneuverability, those were her advantages, and ones she would have to press for all they were worth. She stayed where she was, her eyes fixed on her undead opponent.

She ducked his next swing and leapt clear of the one after that. The sword's sheer weight as it came down again pulled him off balance – only slightly, but Lara saw her chance. She planted a foot on the blade and used it to launch herself clear over his head, twisting as she jumped. Once behind him, a powerful sidekick sent him staggering, and another one knocked him straight over the edge before he could recover.

The knight tumbled into the fire-pit, arms raised, and Lara stood still for a moment, watching him disappear before turning away.

The tunnel ahead was smooth and uniform, with no fiendish traps or patrolling undead in sight. That was it. She was through. She hadn't lost her touch, after all.

Feeling some of the old confidence return, she moved forward, onto the pathway of smooth oblong flagstones. On one of them, in bright enticing gold, was carved a swirling arcane symbol. Lux Veritatis, of course. Curious, wanting a closer look, she stepped forward, raising her torch.

Too late she registered the change in the feel of the stone under her feet; too late she understood that the symbol was more than mere decoration. A split second of icy terror, and the floor suddenly wasn't there, black oblivion yawning under her, feet pounding empty air while her flailing hands clawed desperately for a hold. All that saved her in the end was an irregularity in the floor, a cranny into which she was able to thrust her fingertips and halt the slide into the dark.

Slowly, painfully, she hauled herself onto level ground and retched again and again. When there was nothing left to bring up, she lay on her front shuddering uncontrollably, fingernails digging savagely into the stone, cursing herself, the Lux Veritatis, and Karel for sending her here.

Behind her the treacherous slab swung silently back into place, looking no different from its neighbours.

There are a hundred different ways to die. She had come close to most of them in her time - and emerged unscathed, her legacy a sense of invulnerability that grew with each daring, narrow escape. She'd known she was good. She was _Lara Croft_, and death couldn't touch her. But how laughable, how pitiable, her arrogance seemed now. Because then Set, bringer of plagues, had come like a shadow across the sun, dragging her downfall in his wake.

A quick and unexpected death would be bad enough. Worst of all was a slow death, aware each moment as your lungs filled with dust and your bones splintered beneath the betraying weight of the ancient edifices you had known and loved so well. If she had brought one thing back with her from that shadowy hinterland where she had wandered between life and death, it was the realisation that she was every bit as fragile, as _mortal_, as the rest of them.

Blood thundered in her ears, but it was not the heady rush she used to crave, the one that painted her world in vivid colours and made her feel alive. It was some time before she was able to go on.

The symbol, she now recognised as she stepped over it, served a dual purpose: a warning for friends, a lure for enemies. And she was most definitely in the latter category.

After five minutes or so the tunnel made an abrupt vertical right angle, going straight up like a chimney, and she had to brace her back against one side and her hands and feet against the other, pushing herself upwards bit by bit. The shaft emerged as a hole in the floor of a shadowed, echoing vault, and pulling herself out of it, she stood upright again.

She barely glanced around her, having eyes only for the sarcophagus at the far end of the room: the final resting place of Guillaume d'Orlac, first Grand Master of the Lux Veritatis.

The stone lid was cracked down the centre and it was easy enough to push aside the two halves. D'Orlac's mortal remains lay before her - one Lux knight, at least, who had the good grace to stay dead - but her gaze went straight to the signet ring clasped in his skeletal hands. Mission accomplished.

"Like I said," said Lara. "Easy."

She bent to brush dirt from her knees and exhaled deeply, allowing herself to relax, even enjoy the moment.

Intent on her goal, she never saw the shadows move. Her mouth turned up in a faint smile as she stepped forward to claim her prize, hand outstretched-

-and then something, some nameless instinct, made her head jerk up. That was right before she heard the _click_, and felt cold metal shoved painfully hard into the back of her neck. Her eyes widened in alarmed surprise, but the eyes behind her, like shards of blue ice in the grim face, promised nothing but retribution.

"Hello, Lara," said Kurtis Trent coldly.

* * *

**This one turned out a bit longer than I planned!**

**The chapter title is a homage to another AoD fic, 'Slouching Towards Bethlehem' by my friend 'theharshlightofday', the title of which is itself a reference to Yeat's poem 'The Second Coming'. She always used to abbreviate the title to STB, and I joked with her that it was a good thing it wasn't titled 'Slouching Towards Damascus', hee hee. It's well worth reading, btw!**

**The Latin phrases are taken from the Vulgate (Latin Bible), specifically Isaiah 43 v.2. And Mount Hermon (a real place, of course) is, according to the apocryphal Book of Enoch, the place where the Watchers landed when they first came to the earth intending to take human wives and share their knowledge with them, all of which got them into rather a lot of bother with the Man Upstairs. **


	21. Tunnel Vision

Tunnel Vision

* * *

His fall had seemed to take an eternity, but for a few drawn-out splinters of a second, the freezing rush of air felt ridiculously familiar.

In his eighteenth year, he used to race his first motorbike across the wide alkaline flats of home in the early mornings with the wind in his face, the distant western mountains shimmering ahead, and the sun rising directly behind him, throwing down its rays across the smooth white surface; a fiery road for a reluctant latter-day knight and his metal steed.

The wind of his motion, even in the warm season, was enough to make a tangled mess of his hair (which in those days was shoulder length, much to Konstantin's disapproval). And when the _playa_ was baked hard by the long hot days of high summer, he could push the bike to its greatest speeds and later make exaggerated boasts to his smiling mother about breaking records. But he liked the winter mornings best of all, when the air was chill and there was no other living creature in sight, the landscape empty from horizon to horizon as though ancient Lake Bonneville's saline relic, this bleached desert, were his own private playground; when the surface became wet and soft, so that his wheels would spin and skid, throwing up tangy spray as the bike fishtailed dangerously, and he'd come home, ears aching from the cold and covered in encrusted salt - him and the bike both.

Back then, the speed and the vast emptiness had seemed the sole outlet for his angered frustration, the frigidity of the air the only thing that could cool the rebellious fire in his blood. The fire which rose up increasingly in opposition to Konstantin's teachings, making him swear to himself, time and again in the aftermath of their arguments, that one day he would condemn his father's expectations to hell and make another life for himself, somewhere far away.

The icy air whipping past him as he plunged through its insubstance was just like that-or so he thought for a pulse beat, until the abrupt anticipation of unyielding concrete and shattered flesh brought him back to the present reality. A reality in which his enemy was neither Joachim Karel nor Lara Croft, but the dragging mass of his own body and its weaknesses, the pain in his ears from bitter wind adding to the agony in his midsection.

Then dimly, over the scream of the wind, his father's voice, not quite forgotten after all, had echoed down the years: "When strength fails, use your _weakness_, Kurtis, make it your servant..."

And the only resource left to him, his own terror, had transmuted into a repulsing force, pushing off the immovable ground to allow him to live. Because if you were Lux Veritatis, you could exert your will over inanimate objects; hard, unimagining stone and steel could be made to lift and spin through the air. (And he _was_ Lux Veritatis - foolish to have denied it, more foolish still to imagine that he could evade the calling that burned in his blood by leaving the New World to return to the Old, seat of his order for centuries.)

And if you could do _that_, then how much easier to manipulate the living and infinitely suggestible human mind. So it was that the half dozen Agency soldiers who had walked right past him twice, guns at the ready, had seen nothing more than a patch of blank wall where he sprawled, bloodied and exhausted. It wouldn't have worked on the Nephilim, he knew that. But _he_ hadn't come down.

He half-walked, half dragged himself to one of the old safehouses, a refuge remembered dimly from his childhood - a place unused in years and devoid of comforts, but a safe place nonetheless. More than once he thought he would die there, days spent drifting in a fog of pain and confusion, struggling to focus his waning powers on the burning hole in his chest. But in the end he healed - slowly, painfully, but he healed. And finally he was strong enough to rejoin the world again.

Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed it. She had allied herself with Karel - why, he could not begin to understand, but he knew straight away what their next move would be. So he set out without delay, determined to get there first - only to find his own face staring back at him from television screens and newspapers, and armed officers at every port.

There were other ways, of course. In his previous line of work he had often needed to travel "discreetly". But he found to his dismay that many of his old contacts, even the most hardened denizens of the underworld, wanted nothing to do with someone linked to the Monstrum murders; they had made their excuses and backed off, or refused even to speak to him. He should have known. The Nephilim were damnably clever, and this one had overlooked nothing.

So it became a race - one that she didn't even know she was part of. Denied the satisfaction of leaving her an empty tomb, in the end the best he could manage was to reach Syria at the same time as she did. And from then on it was like Paris all over again, being her shadow, following the same trail, seeking the same end until once again he lay in wait and their paths intersected.

Powers focused and honed during the long, difficult years of initiation took him safely past the ancient defenses, past water and fire and blade, yet he had barely made it into the burial chamber when, throwing his consciousness outward in a red haze, he saw her traversing the outer tunnels. A confrontation, then; and he was glad of it. Because on the road to Damascus, he had had a revelation. Simple, but stunning in its intensity: this was who he was.

He had been to Carthage once - on business, not pleasure, but after the job was done and he'd scrubbed away the last stubborn traces of blood and sand, he'd found time to wander the city as the evening shadows lengthened, and the place - a fusion of ancient and modern, redolent with spilled blood and the struggles of great empires - had evoked in him the exact same emotions: Pity. Guilt. Remembrance. Here in this walled city his Crusader forebears had laid down their lives for their beliefs, the beliefs he had rejected. What would they have thought of him, the one who turned and fled and left the fight behind?

Not that running away had helped much. His brothers in arms had nicknamed him 'Demon Hunter' for a reason, but, stubborn idiot that he'd been, he'd _still_ believed it was possible to cheat fate, and he found other ways of using his particular skills, ones that paid well as long as you didn't ask questions. 'Security work', they all called it with a knowing nod of the head. It hadn't always meant killing, of course, but likely as not the anonymous client would need proof of a corpse in order to feel 'secure'...

After years of this he'd thought his conscience dulled beyond repair, but finally it had begun to agitate again, and he was already thinking about giving it up when the letter came from Mathias with the dreaded news. The Lux Veritatis was losing its long fight against the Black Alchemist and his cabal, and Konstantin was just the latest casualty. And even as he crushed the heavy notepaper in his hands and stared unseeingly out at the dark, he knew that Vasiley himself would be next; and so he had been.

This time there was no-one else to carry the banner. This time, he would not fail them. He would stand between humanity and the dark tide - stemming it, if he had to, with the sacrifice of his life...

...or hers.

He had come prepared to kill.

He broke the long silence first. "What the hell are you doing, Lara?"

She must have asked herself that - she _must_ have, dammit-

As she turned to look at him her eyes were wide with stunned surprise; he noted this with a flicker of vindictive pleasure, but she recovered quickly. "I was going to ask _you_ that. You can't find anything for yourself, can you? Follow me around and take the things I've struggled for. It's getting to be a pattern."

His gun never wavered -_if he pulled the trigger right now, the bullet would impact right there, in the soft hollow at the base of her throat_- "A man's gotta do something with his time. And since I have no family left to visit…and since I'm not welcome anywhere in civilised society, thanks to you and _Karel_…I thought a vacation somewhere warm and dry might be nice. Especially since it was a pretty safe bet that you'd think so, too, now that you're his lapdog…"

It was said with deliberate lightness, the intention to provoke, but she only arched a knowing brow at him.

"If it were the other way around, would you have gone to prison to protect me, Kurtis?" She paused for a moment, searching his face. "No, I didn't think so."

"I've made plenty of sacrifices for you already, Lara Croft." Without lowering his gun or taking his eyes from hers, he pulled up his shirt with one hand, so that she could see the dull, angry red skin around the healed puncture wound. He had no intention of turning his back to her, but she didn't have to look any closer to realise that it went all the way through.

"That's what Boaz did to me," he said, hearing his own voice harden in resentment, "because I stayed behind to fight her." _And sent you ahead, to safety_... "And _this_," he indicated the ruined skin encircling the first wound, "is the souvenir from your new friend."

Something did flicker in her eyes then - guilt? Or was it pity? He sure as hell didn't want _that_ from her. He tugged his shirt down again.

"You don't know what you're doing," he told her. "You don't know the Nephilim."

"And you do?"

"I know more about them than anyone else alive. They're evil, Lara."

This prompted the ghost of a cynical smile. "It must be nice to view the world from such a righteous perspective of moral certainty."

"You can't _trust_ them, Lara. They've always got their own agenda, and Karel, he's no different. He used Eckhardt when he needed an alchemist, your friend Von Croy when he wanted someone to get the paintings. And hey look, now he needs someone who's good at finding old artefacts, and along comes Lara Croft to help him out. In case you forgot, he _killed_ those other two once he'd got what he wanted from them."

She just kept on staring at him; there was something in her face he couldn't quite fathom, something he didn't like...

"You think he won't do just the same to you?" Stepping closer, shaking his head, he continued, "Come on, Lara. Why would he want to keep _you_ around after-"

He stopped, his brows creasing, and lifted his head to look her in the eye. His breathing unsteady.

"You two..." he said it slowly, incredulously, "…you and him - you're _together_?"

She said nothing. She didn't have to.

"_Christ_-" An appalled whisper. His eyes, unfocused, moved rapidly back and forth; he passed a hand shakily across his mouth, a meaningless gesture, something for the body to do while the mind tried to assimilate. "I can't believe it," he managed.

Boaz' worst was nothing compared to this, the deepest, cruellest twist of the knife in his gut.

"Kurtis, listen…" she began, as if about to explain, but he cut her off.

"If you dare- if you _dare_ to try and justify what you're doing," he said slowly, "I'll shoot you dead where you stand. You make me sick."

"What gives you the right to judge me!?" she demanded coldly, suddenly as angry with him as he was with her. "Working for Marten Gunderson? We both know what kind of a man he was. I've met plenty like you before, Kurtis Trent. You were nothing more than a common mercenary. A gun for hire."

"Karel tell you that, did he?"

"Was he wrong?" she challenged, and he couldn't meet her eyes. Seventeen murders, he now stood accused of. Wrongly, but in reality - one of Providence, or fate's little jokes - he'd been responsible for just that many deaths without ever having been called to account. No, Karel hadn't been wrong. So maybe it was a twisted sort of justice, after all.

"People can change, Lara. But I guess I don't need to tell _you_ that. You were always gonna tip the balance, weren't you? I just thought you'd do it on my side, not his."

She said nothing, watching him minutely, he realised - even now - for any opening, any sign of weakness.

"Guess I'll just have to do this alone, then."

"Yes, you will. If you can."

The callousness of her words brought home to him just how much she had changed. The woman he had met in the Strahov had been coolly determined, tough, yes, even hard, but this bitter disillusion was something else entirely. And he, Kurtis, knew only too well how a person could make certain decisions, cross certain lines, and never be the same again. But he couldn't afford to linger here and ponder her motivations. And he couldn't let her do what she was planning to do. This was the moment. His finger tightened on the trigger.

"I can't let you do this. I can't let you help him."

"Then you'd better shoot me. And quickly, please, because I'm starting to tire of your company." She moved closer, and closer still.

The tip of his gun made contact with her chest. They stood, inches apart, a perfect echo of that instant in the Louvre which seemed like years ago but was really only weeks. Her flesh yielded slightly beneath the cold, hard metal; a mere hair's breadth of movement would end her life, and his mind flashed up an image: that flesh, hardly soft but still warm and womanly, torn and shattered by his bullet, that lovely face bloodied. And the hot, righteous anger that had driven him wavered.

He'd come prepared to kill...and he'd thought he could do it, too, for the cause. But maybe there was a part of her he could still reach, maybe if he chose just the right words...

"Thought you and I were a team, Lara." He shook his head with a faint, regretful smile. "Thought we were gonna save the world together..."

The hurt and entreaty in his face wrenched at her, in a way she'd no longer thought possible. For a second she wanted to say "I'm sorry", actually considered saying it, and it must have shown in her face as well.

The gun trembled minutely in his grip. In that moment, they were the same people who had stared at each other, eyes and lips just centimetres apart, in arrested fascination in the Louvre; in that moment he felt he might be willing to forgive her everything.

And, feeling it - her advantage - she smiled. The moment passed.

"Then you think the world's worth saving? I don't. Not any more. And there's the difference between us, Kurtis. I have nothing at all left to lose, which is why we're going to win."

All emotion left him; he was suddenly, strangely calm. He looked right into her eyes and spoke with quiet conviction. "You're playing with fire, Lara. Gonna get burned."

At that, something like apprehension flitted across her face. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, and she shook her head hard, defiantly, her braid lashing back and forth. "I didn't come here to listen to lectures from you."

He straightened. "No..." he said slowly, his eyes moving to the open sarcophagus behind her, "no, we both know why we're here."

There was a moment of utter silence. Eyes locking, muscles tensing, each trying to anticipate the other's move.

The silent tableau came to life. He flung himself towards the prize, feet straining at the floor. Too late, too late...he had moved a split second before her, but she was closer, and the more agile. She reached out to snatch the Seal-

And it lifted from the coffin. Lara shouted in shock and fury as her fingers closed on empty air and the Seal flew to Kurtis' waiting hand.

He smiled at her, closing his fingers deliberately around it. But she recovered herself quickly, and in one swift movement, she was between him and the exit shaft, her gun drawn and aimed between his eyes. "You're not walking out of here with that."

He tossed it in his hand, his whole stance challenging her. "No? How ya gonna stop me?"

She bowed her head for a second, considering, and when she looked up again, her eyes were burning with cold fire, her mouth set in a merciless line.

"You're in my way, Kurtis." An odd phrase given their respective positions, but he knew very well what she meant. It was as though the artefact in his hand filled her vision so that she couldn't see anything else, she couldn't see _him_.

She pulled her other gun from its holster and, without taking her eyes from his, swung it straight upwards to point at the ceiling. Kurtis held his breath. She couldn't be serious, to bring the whole place crashing down on their heads, she _wouldn't-_

"You know I will," she said. "Your choice."

His eyes were like blue steel. "No. Yours."

She shrugged. "All right, then."

He never heard the shot. All he heard was the deep, ominous rumble, all he saw was her turning to run, eyes alight with a fear worse than his own, before the ceiling gave way with a monstrous, deafening roar; the room shaking, choking showers of dust falling, huge chunks of stone slamming into the dirt between them…

…it was dark. Impenetrable blackness all around him, nothing but a pinprick of light piercing his vision.

It widened into a bright, dazzling circle, a tunnel of light, and for a moment he thought he was having one of those afterlife experiences, that his Maker was waiting for him at the other end, and he thought, _Better start thinking up some damn good excuses, Trent_… all those faces, some hardened and vicious and probably deserving, others peaceful and utterly unprepared, all of them fearful at the last.

But then, deep down inside, the part of him untouched by bloodshed and cynicism had always known that when the day of judgment came, platitudes such as _It was just a job_ and _I was only following orders_ would buy him no mercy whatsoever.

He lay on his side, weapon gone, gasping for air, tasting his own blood.

And then his vision cleared enough for him to see it: the circle of light was a gap in the awkwardly piled chunks of pitted stone, and in its centre, on the other side, was the Seal, undamaged and only inches away from him.

His filthy, torn fingers splayed, stretching, grasping as uselessly as hers had only moments before, but the gap was too small and he couldn't force his hand through. And before he could focus his mind again, call it back to himself, a pair of boots came into view, and he froze.

"I was never a good loser," she said, sounding almost apologetic, and then: "You're lucky I can't reach through there."

He had no doubt that she could have _aimed_ through there. Her guns must be lost, too, under the stones. But before he could feel anything like relief, to his profound annoyance the scene began to retreat before him. He struggled to stay conscious, but his own body was, once more, his enemy.

He concentrated his foggy mind, but as the Seal began to tremble her boot came down on it. "No more tricks from you, Kurtis."

"If it's _tricks_ that worry you, you probably shouldn't be hanging out with a Nephilim who wants you on your back."

A pause, and then she crouched down and he was looking into her eyes, cool and derisive. "Isn't that what _you_ wanted, too?"

He tried to reply, but his world faded again to a single pinpoint of light, and then the blackness was complete.

When he came to, wiping grit from his eyes and cursing her, she had gone and the Seal along with her.

* * *

**Posted from Waiheke Island off the coast of Auckland! Yes, I'm on holiday, and no, I have not given up on this story. A huge thank you to those long-suffering souls who are actually still reading and reviewing this after all this time. I love you all. Have cookies!! **

**Also, I'm sorry for being mean to Kurtis (again) but y'know, the plot demands it. What are you gonna do??**


	22. By Starlight

**By Starlight**

* * *

After the stifling blackness of the tunnels, the outside was vast and cool under a star-studded sky. Lara raised a hand to brush at the grime that still coated her face, then checked her watch: four a.m., Just enough hours of darkness left to get to the airport and clean up before her somewhat battered appearance drew the wrong kind of attention.

As she retraced her steps through Damascus' now-silent streets, she felt every one of her cuts and bruises. But she felt something else, too: _alive , _more so than for years, her stride strong and sure, her chin held high, her eyes bright. Collapsing the vault – and coming out whole - had been an unexpected catharsis, as though something vital within her, dammed for too long, had been unleashed along with the tonnes of Syrian stone.

She would never fear the tombs again.

And now, with the precious Seal stowed safely in her backpack and her deepest fears at last behind her, all her thoughts were for what lay ahead.

"Hurry back," had been Joachim's parting words as he held her shoulders in his hands, eyes dark with promise. At the memory her pace quickened involuntarily, despite her rational mind's protests that it would make little difference to the thousands of miles that still lay between them.

Lara found meaningful sleep impossible during the twelve hour flight to Istanbul. Instead she dozed fitfully , snapping back into alertness at the slightest lurch of turbulence, or each time a stewardess passed her seat. After the usual formalities at passport control, and a few hours spent restlessly pacing the departure lounge, to the evident irritation of her fellow travellers, she was finally on board the connecting flight to Kayseri, Cappadocia.

By the time they landed it was late at night and Erkilet Airport was quiet. As she came through the arrivals gate, Lara's eyes went straight to Joachim, standing tall and still among the few others awaiting passengers, his eyes keen; at the sight of him her heart quickened and her lips parted slightly.

He came forward to meet her. Wordlessly, she held the Seal out to him.

Briefly, he turned his gaze aside to take it from her. "Thank you," he murmured, and laid his hand against her cheek, and at his touch the first tendrils of desire, warm and insistent, began to steal through her body.

x x x

When they reached the hired villa on Kayseri's outskirts, she abandoned her backpack as soon as she got through the door, glancing briefly around her. In the low light she had a vague impression of whitewashed walls, frescoed ceilings and palm fronds lining the sweep of the staircase that lead to the upper floor – and the bedroom.

Karel took off his heavy dark coat and dropped it onto a chair behind him. "Come here," he said.

Lara crossed the room, but as he reached for her something flitted distractingly across her mind - something he needed to know - and she frowned.

"Kurtis…" she said, remembering. "I saw him...he…"

He hushed her with two fingers against her lips. "Later," he said, and slid his arms around her, bending his head to hers; she arched eagerly against him, and their long, unhurried kiss was her reward for her travails.

After several heady minutes she pulled back, reluctant to break off the embrace but conscious of having been on a plane for hours. "I need to freshen up," she told him.

"I'll wait for you on the terrace," he answered.

x x x

Standing before the mirror, barefoot on the cool tiles with beads of warm water lingering on her skin, Lara contemplated her reflection in the mellow glass. Despite the inactivity of the last few years she had hardly lost any form – a little less muscle, perhaps, a little more softness, but that was hardly displeasing to the eye. Her only visible flaws were the collection of scrapes and bruises acquired in Damascus, but these she bore proudly, as she always used to, like trophies.

She chose a glass bottle from the row lining the bathroom shelves and, hands slightly unsteady with anticipation, smoothed scented oil over the contours of her body, then set to work unbinding her hair so that it flowed free over her shoulders and fell down to the small of her back in glossy ripples.

It had been a long time. In her self-imposed seclusion, she had shunned human contact on almost every level, and she could barely remember the last time she'd shared her bed with another person. But now, primed in mind and body by the renewed thrill of cheating death, she was more than ready for her encounter with Joachim.

She stared at herself in the mirror, her cheeks flushed, eyes dark and feverish, her breath coming in short, shallow jolts.

x x x

Joachim Karel waited for his lover, his face lifted to the night sky.

The heavens had lost none of their wonder, not in all the millennia he had been watching them, observing the slow stellar dance, the celestial patterns realigning themselves over the course of many human lifetimes. Sometimes, when he looked out across the glittering sea of stars, he felt something akin to childlike awe. They were, after all, one of the few things that were already ancient in the dawn of the world, when he himself was still young.

He could see so many stars. To immortal eyes, the firmament was not studded but _ablaze_ with them, tributaries of white fire burning in the blackness. And he had known each one since infancy, when the seraph who sired him, the one called Sariel, brought him out into the desert at night under the vault of the sky and taught him the names of all the lights wheeling above them, from the greatest to the least.

Overhead it was still deep black, fading to indigo towards the horizon, and lighter still where the first flush of apricot-gold was stealing over the rim of the world. The stars in that part of the sky were starting to pale, but one shone as brightly as ever, undismayed by the coming dawn, and it was that one which drew his attention. Dayspring, herald of the rising sun, Lucifer. They looked on each other like old friends, and his gaze absorbed the brilliance, star-fire illumining the dark of his eyes like radiant joy.

For thousands of years he had watched the morning star alone.

The sound of her bare feet on the stone behind him was musical. He lifted his wings erect in greeting.

Lara followed his gaze, to where Venus rose before them, resplendent in the eastern sky. "The morning star."

"The light-bearer," he said. "_Heylel ben-Shakhar_, that's what we used to call it. A long time ago…"

He turned, extending a hand to her in invitation, and she went up the steps to him like a priestess ascending the altar, loosening the ties on her robe as she went, letting it slip from her shoulders, fluttering whitely in the warm breeze before it sank to the ground, so that she came to stand naked before him, her lithe body silvered by starlight.

She gripped his fingers tightly, drawing an almost painfully deep breath. And as she lifted her eyes to his, she found herself suddenly as uncertain as if she had been with her very first lover. She placed her other hand on his bare chest, slowly, splaying her fingers, feeling the powerful beat of a heart that was not quite human in its rhythm. He returned the caress by touching his fingertips to her temple, drawing them lightly down across her cheek.

She closed her eyes and leaned her face into his hand, noting again the strange coolness of his skin. "You must have blood like ice," she whispered, feeling her heart begin to pound.

He enfolded her in arms and wings, the velvet warmth of the feathers sliding deliciously over her bare flesh.

"Not for long," he said.

* * *

**Yes, it's that rare event, an RiS update. As always, _huge_ thanks to all of you who are still reading and leaving me lovely reviews. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was a bit of a biatch to write, especially as I'm preoccupied with a divorce and moving into my new flat...but writing is as much fun as always, so don't think I've abandoned this fic :)**

**~Jordy x **


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